


Darling, You Are My Reckoning

by abygail_grace



Category: Inception (2010), The Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abygail_grace/pseuds/abygail_grace
Summary: Post Fischer Job. Dom Cobb is still in the dreamshare business, occasionally, and another call from Saito leads to Eames and Arthur embarking on yet another Inception job as instructed by Dom. Saito needs Bruce Wayne, billionaire, to be brought down. How? Put him in a dream world where he thinks he is some sort of vigilante by the name of "Batman" and practically tears himself apart- with the help of Arthur, who presents himself as a cop named Blake, and Eames, who forges Bane- somewhat of a villain, who turns out to have been haunting him for longer than he'd like to admit. His inner demon taking over him and his subconscious, potentially destroying him, the job, and Arthur the point man along with it. It all started when Eames got mysteriously kidnapped for a few days, and right after it, Arthur kissed him for the first time. So ensues a love story and some angsty darkness where Batman and Inception meet. I know this sounds complicated. But seriously. I'm pretty proud of myself. And yes. The ending is good.





	1. Chapter One: Doms' Perspective

** Chapter One: Dom’s Perspective: **

 

“What… um, what are you doing on the steps at six in the morning?” Dom Cobb stared at the whimpering mass splayed on the concrete, unsure of what was going on.

The purple hue of a sunrise was on the shining ground, and the yellow glow of streetlights illuminated whatever was left in darkness, droplets of heavy rain catching the light in the early morning. Few cars drove by, and when they did, it was at a slow drag, with the water rippling as the tires caught the disturbed puddles. It would have made a very pretty, serene picture if he wasn’t the one caught in the rain, with a body below him on the doorsteps to his office.

He bent down, felt his brow twitching in recognition, and when he peered at the outline, he knew immediately who it was. Apart from the face, what gave it away was his salmon colored button-down shirt, stretched tightly across his chest and shoulders, askew, torn, and dirty, and when Dom got a low groan for his answer, somehow still decidedly British sounding, he knew.

Messed up hair fell over his forehead as Dom carefully laid him on his back, examining the purple bruises welling on the lightly tanned skin of his neck, along his jaw, and where his shirt had been torn at the shoulder. His tattoos were marred by blood seeping through a dark bruise, torn through with a cut. His well-defined muscles were spasming and shaking. His mouth was bleeding, along with his nose, which was leaving a bloody trickle across his cheek, and his normally clever grey green eyes were glassy, dazed, and unseeing.

Dom cursed under his breath, having a pretty good idea of what had happened to his friend, especially when he took his elevated pulse and smelled something sharp and chemical-like coming off him.

“Ar… Arthur?” Eames slurred, eyes trying to focus on him as he put up a shaky hand, attempting to grip Dom by the shirt.

He spoke gently. “No, it’s just Cobb. Just Dom Cobb, Eames. Arthur isn’t at work yet.”

Eames let his head thump back onto the pavement, his eyes fluttering closed. “I need him to be… to be… he _knows_ \- the mask…”

His trail of thought ended there, in its verbal expression, and Dom wasn’t able to pick up on what it meant, if anything. He steeled himself for the possibility of an attacker, before looking around for any signs of what had happened to him. There was no one visibly watching, no signs of anyone hiding out and waiting to pounce on him, so he decided he just needed to get Eames inside and safe before he started to search around too thoroughly.

He put an arm under Eames’ back, and heaved, guiding him into a sitting position, but not letting his arm drop. The dead weight of the forger, and the still jerking muscles told him Eames couldn’t support himself. He waited. Looked around again.

Staying in the rain still wasn’t an option. Dom pulled with all his might, straining to get Eames standing on his feet, and finally doing so, grunting from the exertion of it as Eames collapsed against him. He was taller than Eames by a few inches, and physically well off and trained for combat, but Eames was in fantastic shape, carved out perfectly and with more raw strength than any of his other colleagues. He was solid, to say the least.

He gritted his teeth, dragging Eames through the door and into the rented building. There was a separate lounging room set up, complete with a kitchen. In there was food, coffee, tea, snacks, desserts, even- anything they might want throughout the day, which was usually an embarrassingly high demand. Just outside the kitchen was a smaller, carpeted area with a very soft couch, old, worn, squishy, and Eames’ acclaimed private property. He laid him down on it, straightening when he was finished and looking down at him.

Whatever had gone down, it seemed like it was traumatic, humiliating, and painful. He was no expert at reading people, but by the way the forger was trembling, and the type of injuries he had, not to mention the mental state he seemed to be in, Dom would guess that Eames had gone through a lot that night.

He knelt next to him and put a hand on his forehead, relieved to find a relatively normal temperature, besides the general coldness of the rain pounding outside- the rain he’d been lying in, wet and dripping. He gazed at Eames, feeling that Arthur should be the one to be there. He knew Eames had his little poker face because Arthur, his right hand, always complained about how he was trying to get through to him, figure him out- but he himself never wanted to be the one to uncover it. He was frankly pretty content having a healthy, if impersonal and probably mostly fake relationship with the forger. Arthur wasn’t, of course, and so if Eames was at his lowest- defenseless and beaten, he wished Arthur was there to take over. He would know how to handle it. But he wasn’t, and so he only had himself, looking at those green eyes now fixed on him as though he knew exactly what Dom was thinking, despite his being drugged.

Dom put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?” He asked, firmly, but sympathetically.

Eames’ eyes drifted away again. “Mask…” His English accented voice was hoarse, raw sounding and scratchy as it warped around strained words. “My- they were- it was mine- “

He didn’t seem to be able to formulate anything beyond that point.

Dom furrowed his brows. Eames looked at him one more time. “ _Mask_.” He whispered.

He left the forger after that, hopeful that after the drug had worn off, he could have a conversation more fully, and come out markedly less disturbed by the end of it. He resolutely instructed everyone to leave Eames alone, because he was concentrating, and though he was pretty sure Arthur, his point man, saw right through it, he at least got the message and left him alone. They all seemed to notice the bit of aggression in his voice and avoided even looking at the door for the entire day.

It was bound to be suspicious, and as he didn’t want to uproot any best kept secret information from Eames, or cause any want to pry, he concluded then and there that he’d broach the incident later but omit any details. He left him with some food and water, a waste basket in case he vomited, and from there, proceeded about his day quietly, checking up on him occasionally and only ever finding him in the same spot, laying across the brown leather and raving about masks, needing help, Arthur, and occasionally letting out laughs of hysteria, singing strange songs, and counting random numbers- none of which made any real sense.

It was around three that he got a call from Saito, the billionaire they’d worked for a few times, and he had an offer: a new job, with a beyond reasonable share for each and every team member. It was fortunate they’d already been grouped together, the same team from Inception, in the same office building they’d rented a few years ago.

Cobb, having been reunited with his children, had been taking it easy on work in dream share, but Arthur remained his right hand and close companion throughout it all, and Eames along with them, although not every job required a forger, so he’d just bounce around in the area, and frequently stay in either Dom or Arthur’s home, or travel with them to the hotels, an accompaniment he had and Arthur had come to insist on. The job, with its complexity, would require Eames that time, though, and also with the complexity, Ariadne and Yusuf would need to be recruited as well. Since their last job altogether, they were in the same area, having only finished it the day before. It was such a complicated thing, Dom actually decided to wait to tell them, and instead invited them all over for dinner, to get a general idea. That would also be an appropriate time to give a casual retelling of what was going on with Eames throughout the day, he thought.

He'd agreed to the job partly because of the money he knew they all wanted, and partly because he wouldn’t have to do anything too risky or hands on. That was up to Arthur and Eames, whose ending share would be even higher. Dom was glad. He didn’t care about the money that much- he just didn’t want something bad to happen and have James and Phillipa without a father, or at least, a father whose mind wasn’t lost in Limbo. Literally. He couldn’t risk losing them, but out of gratitude towards Saito for restoring them to him, he had vowed, at least, his word. The job seemed to be complex, a lot more delicate, tip toe work than the Fischer job that had put them all into the billionaire’s good books to begin with, but just as complicated, and just as risky. Arthur would need to be very close with the target, and Eames? Oh, he would need to be so incredibly close, forging a character designed to inflict pain upon the marks’ weaknesses through pre-imagined memory and subconscious acceptance of false reality, that it could be difficult for even the most skilled forger to stay in character and do everything perfectly. Saito had said it was lucky Eames could do exactly that, to which he couldn’t really pose an argument.

Speaking of, Dom would have to see if he would even be fit enough by the evening to hear about the potential Bruce Wayne operation. He was conveniently staring at the ended call screen, right outside the door that behind which was housing Eames. Resigned to whatever chaos he might find inside, Dom first checked to see that no one else was around, then unlocked it and cautiously opened it, knocking carefully.

He kept his eyes lowered and cleared his throat loudly, to make his presence very obviously known… just in case Eames had decided to strip naked or something, which wouldn’t be too much of a surprise at that point.

“Eames?” He called, chancing a darted glance upwards, skimming the room quickly to see where he was.

He spotted the questionably clothed man (from a fashion standpoint) right away- awake and standing with his elbows propped on the counter near the sink, swirling water inside the glass gripped tightly by his hand. Eames turned his head around when he saw him, flashing a cheeky smile and straightening himself fully to meet him.

Dom was taken aback at his own awareness that the smile had something very wrong behind his eyes, and again, he wished for his point man. Dom wondered if it was a change in himself or a lack of standard on Eames’ part: but his eyes were empty and cold. It made his very being shudder.

Instead of focusing on that, he took in the rest of the physical appearance of Eames and trying his best to assess him from a medical standpoint. His already swollen lips were even puffier and redder than they naturally were, swelled up to almost comical proportions, and as he grinned, it was noticeable that his lips had actually been split, top and bottom. His bruises had fully welled up over his arms, shoulders, neck… leaving a colorful addition to his dark tattoos and light skin. Eames was wearing an unusually simple white tank as his undershirt, but it was spotted and ruined in large splatters and droplets of dark, stained blood, evidently when he’d tried cleaning up his bleeding face. His arm was the worst gash, his swirling black tattoos slashed viciously with the gruesome cut. The sadly torn shirt had been removed and shoved halfway into the back of his pant pockets, and his hair was haphazardly fluffy and soft, no longer sleekly side-parted with hair gel or drenched and wild like it had been earlier.

“Disaster, at your service.” Eames sighed, set down the glass, and ambled over towards him, hands sliding into his side pockets with casualness, but he winced slightly as he did so.

Dom felt pity surge through him. “Not as bad as a few hours ago.” He joked. “Not sure if you’ll remember any of that, but it was not quite your proudest moment.”

Pink tinged on the forger’s cheeks, very plainly before he could muster it back down again. “Certainly not.”

His brows rose. “So, you remember, then?”

Eames ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth for a few strained seconds, then swiped it over his lips, nodding and looking away.

The silence continued.

Eames drew his brows together, met eye contact again with him, and then looked off again, a hand coming out to lightly brush over his nose, before quickly retreating to his slacks. Eventually, when he seemed to get that a half shrug wouldn’t cut it, Eames nodded distractedly again and grunted out a simple “Yeah,” in a very uncharacteristically basic, American sounding tone. Dom knew for a fact that he was anything but American, and the change could be an attempt, whether conscious or not, to appeal to him and his own _native sound._

Dom squinted at him, trying to get more out of him than that, but the forger ignored it and instead asked, voice rough and dry sounding, “Mind telling me what day it is?”

“Thursday.” He replied cautiously. “You haven’t been in since Monday, so…”

Eames shrugged innocently.

But he knew. He’d been kidnapped nearly the whole work week. And he’d never even thought.

Something in his face must’ve told the whole story, because Eames made a crooning, clicking noise in his throat, once again slipped into a sarcastic smile, and that time seemingly forced his eyes to be distinctly less unsettling. “Easy now, Dom.” He began. “It was just a bloody irritating group of imbeciles who caught me off guard at the wrong, or- well, maybe the right, time. Depending on your point of view.”

“Eames…”

“Must’ve been the right time for them, of course, but certainly not the right time for me, or you, or- “

“Eames.”

“I heard you on the phone outside- what is it? Anything interesting?”

“ _Eames._ ”

He frowned back, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was avoiding the question, but still making it plain that he was going to play dumb either way. Cobb dragged a hand over his cheek, rolling his eyes. Eames puckered his lips in response.

“Fine.” He snipped. “We’ll play it that way, then.”

Eames seemed very self-satisfied and clapped his hands together in front of him happily. “ _Excellent_.” He emphasized. “Now, what was it you were saying?”


	2. Chapter One Continued: Eames' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That same evening, Eames has just a few things on his mind.

** Chapter One Continued: Eames’ Perspective **

****

“Bruce Wayne is our next job. We all know him, at least by name. But if you keep tabs on the papers you would get a dramatic story of a self-glorified billionaire who is, apparently refusing to offer up anything from his company in favor of profit to… well, anyone, but specifically here, we’re working with Saito because according to him, Bruce Wayne is depressed, hopelessly stubborn, and seems to be feeding off of his own struggles with his past. Our task is simple- we’re going to change that.”

As Dom Cobb continued explaining, he noticed that it very well sounded like it was another repeat of the Inception project- the Fischer job that had been one of the most daring and risky operations they’d ever done. Really, it was enough to make him go gray. (Which had certainly not happened yet and was a fact that he was _most_ grateful for.) Dom had invited them over to his large and rather lavish house that evening, because it was closest to the makeshift office, and so, after drinks had been poured and the usual friendly, pitter-patter conversation was made, they stood around the smooth granite countertops in his just as ridiculously large kitchen, the sounds of James and Phillipa, Dom’s children, giggling upstairs.

Altogether, the merry party compromised of Yusuf, the occasional chemist, Ariadne, the architect who had become a somewhat regular part of projects, Arthur, the point man and practically Dom Cobb’s right hand- or maybe even his lap dog- and then Eames, who was not at all feeling up for dealing with people after his… rather rough night.

Eames flitted his gaze over the group, noting their reactions.

He himself was the forger- the con man- and was well trained to pick up on things like that. People, how they behaved, how their emotions tied into it, what they were concealing, and conceal his own emotions, or at least, display them strategically. If he were to conceal them entirely, he may end up like Arthur, on the very brink of exploding out of his stiff cage of logic, files, and far too much coffee.

He had to remind himself that he was no better, and he was a thief. Worst of all, he was a good thief, with a bit of a knack for easily lying and manipulating people. It didn’t matter who they were, whether it was the bloody queen of England, bless her soul, or that one grumpy old crook he’d ran into back in Los Angeles once or twice- if he could forge them, he could trick them. Eames was very good at both.

A voice whispered in his head, coyly, and a dark, cold room came into his vision as he heard it say, all too closely,

_What’s under that mask?_

He swallowed painfully, took a long drink, and resumed his train of thought, the dark room vanishing.

Ariadne was clearly apprehensive, but in the end, after processing all the facts, she would agree to begin developing their plan of action. She was picking on her cardigan sleeves and fiddling with her scarf in nervousness, but had her trusting eyes fixed resolutely on Dom.

Yusuf looked mildly interested, but the curl of his lip suggested he felt he had other things he would rather do with his time, being an extremely busy chemist, and all.

Arthur looked immaculate, loyal, a bit wary, but unwavering all the same, with a stiff posture and a slight hint of a smile on his lips, encouraging Dom that he was presenting the information well.

Yusuf sighed, rubbing a hand down his darker skinned face, and tugging a few black curls with it, which sprang back up once the touch was released. “This sounds like a bloody disaster.”

Eames kept back his usual sarcasm that he would have normally thrown in, unable to muster up the usual jaunty and slightly annoying act… well, partial act that he constantly chose to employ. He didn’t think anyone would really notice, just like Dom didn’t notice his watch had been missing for an entire day and Eames was the last person to be close enough to snatch it. He considered himself to be more of a background character, anyway- the filler for occasional whimsical needs.

_Vulnerabilities? Got weak spots, have you? I wonder how hidden you really are._

In reply to that secret little voice, he raised his glass once again, a sarcastic salute to the voices in his head.

Arthur spoke for him in his stead. “Then, by all means, you can go ahead and leave, Yusuf. We can just find another chemist.”

Arthur was eyeing Yusuf coldly, and, in response, he merely shifted awkwardly on his feet, broke eye contact, and took another swig of his beer, but not before “subtly” (though he failed marvelously) giving Eames an eye roll. Yusuf had always been a bit of a pain, almost as much as Eames knew he was himself, but despite Yusuf being the only fellow Englishman in the current group of Americans, Eames had never felt anything particularly warm and friendly toward him. He didn’t care if he sported a vaguely British accent or was a poor little outcast or not; despite what Yusuf seemed to think about everyone else, Eames was a bit fond of the “team.”

It was rare that all of them met up for a job, but after the Fischer operation, they’d had almost a sort of bond. Maybe he was more than a bit fond of them, actually- but that was only for himself to know. He didn’t like to keep his relationships strictly professional, but that didn’t mean he kept his relationships… at all. And he was positive they put up with Yusuf because he was an extremely skilled chemist and, at least sometimes- halfway decent company. So, he pretended- convincingly too, of course- that he did not see Yusuf’s want for a fellow pessimist- and ignored him.

“I’m in.” Ariadne spoke up, giving everyone a meek look as she did so. Arthur’s face relaxed.

Dom nodded. “Good. Arthur, I already know you’re with me. Now, for you, Yusuf- “

Yusuf threw up his hands in irritation, feeling agitated and attacked, Eames observed. “Yeah, yeah, you have me. I’m in.”

At least he was not the only one who was on edge that evening. Yusuf was fuller of complaints than usual, Arthur more closed off, Dom more irritable, and Ariadne was more stressed. Eames, who had been fiddling with his poker chip, his totem, subconsciously in his right hand, quickly slipped it into his pocket when he felt scrutinizing eyes on him. Arthur was frowning at him from his position directly next to him, and he nearly shifted away defensively, halted only by the fact that Yusuf was planted right on his left side.

Yes, the team probably only put up with him too, because he was quite a good actor and could read people’s characters, create images and personalities, and use his rather vivid imagination more than any other. However, he didn’t fancy being lumped in with Yusuf, either as just some dump.

Underneath the counter, a double tap on his wrist sent the signal that Arthur wanted to talk to him later. He nodded minutely, already deciphering how he could wade Arthur off. Recently, he’d been staying in Arthur’s spare bedroom, (in whichever one of his houses or hotels they occupied then) and had ample time to reinforce the ticks he’d noticed about him. Among many, many other things, the classically constant use of “darling” always seemed to do the trick. He would have to use that tactic, then.

“Eames, you haven’t spoken a word this whole night, and I haven’t seen you this whole week. Are you okay?” Ariadne’s soft voice flooded his ears, and he raised his head wearily to look across at her, where she stood next to Dom, annoyingly genuine concern lacing her soft features.

Immediately, he saw darkness, and his condensation formed, billowed breaths coming slowly in front of his face, with a few set of eyes shining through the frozen clouds. Eyes glittering with wicked intent watched him, standing over him, while his wrists were tied and attached to the walls on either side of him, keeping him on his knees so that he could not collapse, and a hand gripped his hair back, forcing his head up as he choked around his cloth gag.

_What if we showed the world your mask? What if I took this knife, and carved it onto your face? You think anyone would notice? Or care? If your pain was in jagged scars on your face, a mask, do you think you could still hide it from him? We could test it out. What if you were forced to wear a mask to hide your pain? A real mask?_

The vision dissolved, leaving him still feeling the cold sweat that was supposed to be left in that room from his last night, yet had evidently decided to cling to him as uncomfortably as his paisley silk shirt was becoming.

“I’m quite alright, thank you.” He chirped, flashing Ariadne a smile.

She didn’t seem very convinced, and instead just denied his assurance swiftly. “Eames, whenever you do that- grin like the Cheshire cat at me- I know you’re lying.”

His muddled brain could not seem to come up with a reply quickly enough, because Dom started laughing, rapping a knuckle on the granite. Eames felt his glass return to his lips, almost- but not quite- worried that he found he really couldn’t care less how much he drank. He did not _grin like the Cheshire cat._

“Not inaccurate- those thugs really got you good, eh?” He teased, when Eames forgot to reply.

He tensed, despite himself. Dom had found him on his way to work that morning, after a group of thugs had shot him up until he was brilliantly high and left him crumpled on the office doorway for his coworkers to see. Dom had kept him hidden in a back room, telling the others that Eames was just busy, and not to bother him, which was an obvious lie, but one that Eames was nonetheless grateful for. It was no surprise to him that it would be mentioned that night, but the reactions of everyone else were immediate.

Ariadne gasped and began exclaiming sympathy, Yusuf snorted in amusement and clapped him on the back, causing him to wince a bit pathetically, and Arthur gave him a very worried look.

“Thugs? What thugs, Eames?” Arthur demanded, brown eyes darting from him to Dom. _“You’ve been held hostage since Monday?”_

He gave an easy shrug, replying with a grin, noting that it felt much more strained than usual on his face, although he knew its tension was still only visible to him. “It’s nothing new or too terribly interesting, darling- what do you expect in this line of work? “Employee of the year” mugs, hm?”

Arthur did not seem to like that answer. He opened his mouth to clearly protest, but Cobb began talking again, still looking amused by it all. Eames knew it was part of the act, part of what he and Dom had come up with in case anyone noticed something was off about Eames that day. The plan was to tell the truth but do it in a way that suggested it wasn’t a big deal. He personally would have much rather just ignored the thing altogether, but he insisted that Eames let him handle it, and so he did, cautiously eyeing him to assure that he would only say the bare minimum- and not to overly dramatize what little he was allowed to work with, at any rate.

Dom gave him a quick glance and a meaningful nod, comfort and reassurance warming him pleasantly, and relaxing him just a little bit. “It’s not as bad as it looks, alright? Yeah, he had a bloody nose… general bumps and bruises, but nothing too serious. But he was pretty sluggish, which explained how they were able to take him down in the first place. His words were all slurring together and he made no sense, just kept saying random things. Asking for you seemed to be his favorite, Arthur.”

The radiating warmth of sheer embarrassment was gone as soon as it had come. He could almost feel the rain soaking him straight to the bone and pouring hard in frozen daggers onto his face. He knew the memory well enough to relive the of icy sting of his hands bracing himself on the concrete steps as he was shoved brutally onto them, and split his palms; dirt, blood, the combination of numb cold and fiery heat causing them to throb. The way he shuddered on the pavement and craned his neck to look up at the faces again as they overshadowed him.

_We’re letting you go for a reason, Mr. Eames. You do know why, don’t you?_

Eames, in his delayed registering, felt his face re-redden at that comment about his whining for Arthur, who he was _not_ attached to, just to clarify, and hastily concealed his embarrassment by taking yet another drink of his scotch, glad he couldn’t remember how many and of what quantity drinks he had had that evening, his thoughts going on a repeat circle of _“bloody hell, bloody hell, double and triple the bloodiness in hell, then bloody hell once more, and again, bloody hell- and one more time, for the bloody hell of it, let’s just say bloody hell.”_

Unfortunately, (as proven by the many, many instances of “bloody hell” in the previous five seconds) that was, in fact, a true statement, but Dom wasn’t exactly supposed to mention it. He’d been practically begging for Dom to call the point man, to help him in his ridiculously inebriated state. Dom had thankfully written it off as a result of being off his rocker, and Arthur thankfully chose not to address that bit, instead pressing Eames further, and when Eames finally met his eye, he looked right and properly furious.

He blinked, refocusing on him, yet found the image no less spitfire. Arthur’s voice was low and hissing when he asked, “Who were they?”

He kept his voice level, though he could feel himself inevitably becoming drunk and a bit jumbled all over again. “Like Dom said, thugs who had been hired by someone I’ve made raving mad or something, out to exact a bit of revenge. It happens in this business, Arthur darling, so please don’t go troubling yourself over it.”

“Why not?” Arthur’s voice rose in pitch.

It was times like these that Eames had the nasty reminder that he’d been unable to work the man out. He was oddly protective over Eames but gave no indication in any way that he was in any other regards. In normal settings, he was crisp, neat, methodical, and professional- not at all or even remotely attached to him. Granted, they’d never had anything close to a professional relationship, so they weren’t just partners in business, not just colleagues, but also not sporting mates, either. Arthur seemed very clear on letting him know that he was just doing his job, and nothing more.

He and Eames had this teasing and one-upping relationship going, if it could even be called that. Eames was sarcastic and witty and took extra care to annoy him as much as he himself could even bear, and Arthur was dry and smooth, generally unamused by anything he did.

The only indication Arthur had something different in his regards when it came to Eames was that he’d tested the theory that Arthur was, in fact, attracted to him in some way, at the very human, baseline level of physical manifestation, that is. That sounded very much like an Arthur thing to say, didn’t it?

He’d noticed that if he licked his lips or traced his hand over them, if he stretched certain ways, Arthur would slightly shade pink, wet his own lips in response, his pupils would dilate, and the next sentence he spoke would be sure to contain a very mild voice crack. He also had been surprisingly obliging at Dom’s insistence for Eames to constantly be where he was, or Arthur- especially, no matter the circumstance. Eames wasn’t sure yet how he felt about the world observing him as the point man’s pet, and strongly had begun to suspect Dom was inching them closer and closer together. He couldn’t understand why.

He was usually so uninterested in him, or at least, Arthur tried very hard to come off that way. Yet, in little situations that involved him in any danger, or if Eames quirked random little habits, or was out of contact for a bit too long, he would nearly explode.

It was all most perplexing.

Eames raised an eyebrow high and replied lightly, though he was becoming vaguely nervous that he couldn’t control the slight slurring in his voice, the slurring which marked he was overly drinking, and Arthur might notice it.

“It isn’t good for your delicate health, of course.”

Arthur was still not amused, and had definitely noticed- because this time, he earned a full-on squeeze of his hand, a hard one, hidden under the counter, to signal that they were going to talk whether he liked it or not. He squeezed the persistent little hand back, resigned to his fate, and feeling altogether much too drunk for it.

The conversation died down, as individual questions were asked about the job and introspective creation began to commence. Everyone very neatly split off after that, Ariadne helping Dom make a lovely Italian dinner, Yusuf meandering, notepad out and tapping his chin with his pen as he thought of the sedatives best suited for this particular job, and Arthur and Eames sat against a wall in one of Dom’s hallways, the lighting dim, and voices quiet so that they would not be disturbed. Arthur’s deep, mahogany brown hair was slicked straight back, as always, but he’d run his hands through it so much in the past ten minutes that it was getting messy, and a stray wave fell onto his fair face, which he surprisingly paid no mind to. His dark eyes were stormy, and his lean, suit-clad figure tense. He waited until Eames had finished talking, giving positively the most cut and dry explanation that he could get by with, before Arthur spoke, subdued.

“So, a mask, then?”

A single, blinding light flooded his eyes, focused sharply onto his face. He inhaled, desperately, through the poison pumping mask they’d strapped to his face, his only source of air also the source of his venomous ingestion, and his eyes strained as he fearfully looked up at his persecutors. The one directly in front of him kicked him swiftly to his stomach, and he let out a sharp gasp, bringing his knees up to his chest in pain, literally doubling over from the sheer impact of the blow. He stared determinedly at his knees, his vision doubling, tripling.

_You created this for yourself._

Eames looked up from his knees, gas mask no longer on his face. “Precisely.” He responded, internally satisfied at the normality of his voice. “They’ll do that- create a symbol for the victim to be consumed by. You should know that, Arthur. It often evokes a psychological trigger that can really damage a person in the head, if they’re susceptible to that sort of thing, and it can mark the end of sanity for them.”

“Are you?” There was an approaching accusatory tone in his voice.

He didn’t bat an eye, as he automatically said, “Susceptible? Naturally, not, Arthur.”

“Eames, for a trained liar, I can tell pretty well that you’re trying to play me right now.” That same accusatory tone was definitely present- and had strolled well past just the approaching stage. He even muttered _Cheshire_ in evident afterthought.

Eames therefore hastened to pacify him. “Darling, I was held for a few hours, left relatively unscathed, and didn’t even have to fight my way out. They were even kind enough to drop me off for work in the morning, just so you didn’t have to. Charming of them, I thought, so I won’t complain.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “That would get to me, if I were you- them coming up with such a, ah, a well thought out mind trip. Specifically, for you.”

He raised his brow, silently challenging the implication. “Really? Truthfully, I thought it rather cliché.”

The point man’s face was positively ridden with doubt, and he looked certainly about to take that challenge, so Eames once again demonstrated his brilliant talent for pretending to be unaware of others attempting to get through to him and ignored it as swiftly as he had Yusuf and Dom earlier. He tried for a subject change, instead, grasping onto thin wisps of air.

“Right. This job that we have- could we go over the finer details tomorrow morning, Arthur? If I want to create an adequate forge for this dream, I’ll need to build up the- “

He heard a frustrated sigh next to him, but tried to continue speaking through it, to get Arthur at the point of giving up his pursuit of Eames’ obviously nonexistent vulnerabilities. It seemed to work, at least for a decent five or so seconds.

But then the insane happened, the thing that would certainly be the death of her beloved Majesty, (bless her soul) should she ever happen to hear the tale.

Out of nowhere, he found himself abruptly cut off as Arthur’s mouth unmistakably collided with his, thinner lips pressing firmly onto his own, quite plump ones. It left him in such a state of shock that, after a loud, startled exclamation, he simply sat there, both bruised arms pinned against the wall with Arthur climbing over onto his lap and letting loose one of his wrists to cup his face.

If he had to be honest, in that scenario, an aggressive kiss was not what he’d been planning for.

Eames made a small noise of confusion, muffled against Arthur’s mouth, but when the only reply he got was the sucking of his lower lip, he conceded, and relaxed enough to return the kiss. He allowed him to sensually drag his already normally sensitive lip between those pearl teeth, magnified by the recent busting it had gone through, and then he returned the favor, slipping his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, and using his one free hand to grip Arthur by the ribs. Arthur pushed his other arm further to the wall, and his badly stitched shoulder forced out another noise from him, this one a small yelp of pain that escaped before he could reign it back in.

The point mans’ dark, sad eyes slid open, and his hand felt the bandage underneath Eames’ clothing. “They did that.” He whispered, to which he could to little less than nod in affirmation. Arthur, seemingly fighting down irritation of some sort, closed his eyes and put his mouth into his again.

The emotions he could pick up on from Arthur were a combination of something hungry, angry, fierce, yet full of emotion and tenderness, somehow all simultaneously. It felt like a pent-up love, one that had waited for centuries in the pure form of true love, even. But that couldn’t be it. Eames had never believed in true love, or at least, true love aimed in his direction, and especially coming from Arthur.

The kiss deepened, and soon he found himself too distracted to think, unable to help the little gasps coming from his mouth as he felt a growing warmth in his crotch at Arthur’s responding groan, and he groaned himself as the point man cupped the front of his pants in his hand, and began to stimulate him through the fabric, almost to the point where he could come in his pants and be unable to control himself. That was why Arthur was in control. He was always in control over Eames, despite his own rebellious tendencies.

It all lasted for a very long time, truthfully, he was a bit worried that Dom would wander back and find them making out in his hallway, or even worse, his nearly innocent children would, but then Arthur pulled away, his expression looking to be one of slight hesitance, which was a one in a million occurrence with the immaculate point man, who was always so sure of himself in every scenario, always dragging him along to agreement just so he could prove him right. Eames opened his own heavily-lidded eyes and looked at him for another length of time.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, which was still racing out of control. “It- it’s alright, I just was…” He couldn’t formulate exactly what he “just was,” and ran a hand over his neck, trying again. “Arthur, I believe you’re aware that I’m a bit drunk. I wasn’t really expecting- you know- “

Arthur remained on his lap, and grabbed Eames’ fumbling hand in his own, firmly, and lowered it back to his side. He smiled slightly at him, a bit more of a smirk. “I can tell, Mr. Eames. You’re not too shabby for a British lightweight, but your words have been slurring.”

He felt indignance flash through him. “Oi- watch who you’re calling lightweight, mate. You yourself are pretty pathetic, and I’ve got video to prove it.”

Arthur had no conclusive answer to that one, so instead, he rubbed Eames’ trousers aggressively, reminding him that Arthur was still the one in charge. Not in an insanely intense way at all, but it was enough. Eames could snip and gripe all he liked, but ultimately, he was weak when it came to the point man. He fought hard to restrain his hips, but Arthur seemed to have made his point and finally, he got off, resumed his original position, and ended with sitting collectedly next to him as though nothing had happened. He also resumed the original topic, about the Bruce Wayne operation, with all the class and finesse as he had ever possessed. “So, these finer details about the job should definitely wait until you’re sober, then?”

“Probably.” He shrugged, still in the middle of having his mind blown, his trousers tented, and not quite processing the subject shift. He hesitated. “Arthur…?”

Arthur ran his hand through his hair again, making it beautifully and wonderfully untidy. He raised his eyebrows at him, looking entirely casual. “Yeah, Eames?”

“What… what exactly did that elevate us to? If it did at all-because as much as I enjoyed that kiss, I was not expecting it in the slightest.” He almost added “especially from you” at the end, but thought better of it, even though his intonation would most likely give it away.

Arthur turned away from him, his voice revealing nothing, unlike himself, and his face concealed from any observation. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a really long time. It’s up to you what you do with it.”

_Always lying, always hiding. It’s no wonder, is it? You. You’re an open book to those who know how to read it. The language is unbearably simple._

He cleared away the unwelcome voice, refocusing on the actually happening conversation, which wasn’t much better. If Eames was going to be frank, he had no idea what he was _supposed_ to do with it. “Arthur- darling- “

Arthur held up a pacifying hand, halting him before he’d really even begun. “It’s fine. I know you don’t operate that way- with actual relationships and- “

He winced, the statement stinging rather more than it ought to. “Arthur- “

“I mean, I suppose you won, your flirting really got to me and I care about you anyway- that’s why I’m so protective, but I know I shouldn’t take it seriously and I should just stay professional, so I can easily pretend it didn’t happen if you can, we’ll make a deal, it’s better to stay business partners and nothing more- “

Eames stared, becoming very concerned about the usual wall of logic and three-piece suits in front of him. “Bloody hell, you’re letting it all out- have I even got a say in this?”

Arthur inhaled deeply, as if to get his breath back, before he finally peered at him with one speculative eye. “Alright. This conversation, among the finer details, can happen when you’re not drunk. I’ll listen to your thoughts in the morning. Is that fair enough for you, Eames?”

Truth be told, the conversation still felt a bit one sided, but he really was disgustingly and dizzyingly drunk, and so, at that time, any option seemed like a decent one to him, and he gave a sloppy nod.

“Yeah- yeah, right.”

The point man’s face relaxed, and he nodded back at him, much more curtly, and much more normally. He ran his hand through his hair yet again, and spoke, eyes examining the wall with much more interest than it deserved credit for.

“It’s my turn to drive you, so you’re coming back over to my place, tonight.”

He blinked. “Am I?”

Arthur stood, and held out a hand to him, which Eames grudgingly took and heaved himself upwards. His hand kept in contact a bit longer than necessary. “Yeah, you are.”

If no importantly emotional and relationship-type talking would be soon occurring, he would have to have several more drinks before that.

And so, he did.

He stumbled back into Dom’s kitchen and lost track of time as he conversed, failed to converse, tried for normal socializing, failed for normal socializing, and drank. He drank and drank and drank, the registering of Arthur’s firm hand stopping him and the concerned voices of others not functioning properly.

He caught a few phrases here and there, such as “I shouldn’t have let him…” and “Promise to take care…” and, the worst one of all, “Never again… do this to himself… understood, Arthur?”

Eames was grateful to be entirely thoughtless by the time he was dragged from his glass and out the front door, mind bursting and blank all at once as he gave in to the wonderful, addictive thing about knowing no more.


	3. Chapter One Continued: Arthurs' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter- an ode to the weaknesses of a point man.

** Chapter One Continued: Arthur’s Perspective **

****

He kept his eyes on the road as he turned the corner, Eames in the passenger seat next to him, the alcohol predictably making him doze off. He had rushed to the kitchen and downed a lot more alcohol after their kiss, and if he wasn’t driving, or so worried about Eames- who refused to stop- Arthur might have done the same.

He felt all his nerves vibrating inside him. He couldn’t believe he had just done that. He had just kissed Eames. Kissed him. After years of dream-generated projections, he had finally done something about his darkest and deepest secret, and given him a piece of his mind, which seemed to have been returned, fantastically.

But it was still Eames the forger and con man, Arthur had to remind himself. Not one to necessarily be trusted. He had no idea why, that night, of all the nights, he had chosen to just go for it, head on, with none of his usual calculative planning. It was funny how he’d vowed to never let a soul know of his pathetic little crush, especially “said-crush” himself, but there they were.

He came to a red light and stopped, glancing at Eames. He was lightly snoring, face pressed against the window, with his cheek starting to slide down against the glass. Arthur rolled his eyes.

 _You’re pathetic, sometimes, Mr. Eames._ He thought, irritably.

But, in all reality, he didn’t mind the odd quirks… at least where Eames was concerned.

It was stupid- as in, really stupid- but everything he hated in people somehow managed to be endearing and charming when Eames did it. Even when he was trying his very best to make Arthur hate his sorry little face, it somehow had the opposite results. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Hyper-creative and even borderline whimsical? Check. Sarcastic, annoyingly clever, and cheeky? Check. Drama queen? Check. Rude? Check. Liar? Yet another check.

Though he hated admitting it, he might just have really bad taste. It was that or there was something else in the Englishman that only his subconscious recognized and wanted to know. Besides the very human, baseline manifestations of physical attraction, of course.

There was something he didn’t understand, something deeper, but Arthur couldn’t find it- no matter what research he’d done on him, no matter how hard he observed his subconscious, and above that, how much he’d watched him in real life, too- he couldn’t figure him out.

It was his job to find out people’s dirty secrets, and all their information before he’d even met them. If he had to prove his worth as point man by filing a report on Eames, he would fail miserably and never get another job in dreamshare- and that made Arthur mad.

As in, really mad. Eames made it very clear that he knew it and he was enjoying himself, too- but even still, the most he could scrape up was Eames’ location every now and then. He had, very privately, spent many nights just trying to work out who he was, what his past was, anything- anything to understand why he was so drawn to it.

He always came up short on a logical explanation for why he seemed to be head over heels _in love_ with him- different than anyone else he’d liked, and far more intense and uncontrollably passionate than he’d ever had before.

Eames could be a good person, inside. Maybe he was outside, too.

But, maybe not.

The stoplight cast a green haze suddenly over the image, forcing Arthur back into motion again as the cars around him all began the slow crawl once again, through the colorfully lit lights reflecting and shimmering off the rain-soaked ground and deepened by the black sky. Hitting the gas, he heard the vehicle whirring, skidding on the slick pavement, and winced in distaste. The old truck really needed replacing, but it was subtle enough for the different hotels and that one condo he sometimes occupied when in Dom’s area, if not for everyday use.

Trucks. He was seriously thinking about trucks. What cause did he have to care about trucks?

Arthur thought he was just tired, and after pulling into the driveway and dragging an unhelpful forger up the stairs to the hotel, he knew for a fact that he was beyond needing sleep. He changed into a simple shirt and flannel pants as soon as he got there, which definitely soothed him, but let Eames remain in his clothing because… well, he didn’t want to seem like he was attached- it was unlike him for starters, and it would most predictably cause the forger to scram like a startled cat. It seemed politer to remove only his brown shoes and linen jacket and guide the barely functional man to his tiny couch, with a pillow and a comforter to make him more contented with the small space. He set a clean wastebasket right next to him in case Eames needed to vomit at some point during the night, and with that done, he went to bed, somehow falling into a dreamless, deep sleep.

At least, until the screaming started.


	4. Chapter One Continued: Eames' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No dreams should be made of this.

** Chapter One Continued: Eames’ Perspective: **

 

He’d been here before.

Eames took in the surrounding area, just to confirm, and found himself to be standing in the familiar prison cell, old, carved into dark stone with floors to match, dirty, dampened, rough, and cold. Light streamed in through the rust decayed bars that made up one side, one wall of the cell, and when he took a step forward to peer between them, he curled his hands around the flaking bars. He could see the source of light, just as he had every time, a mere wisped sky through a circular hole far above. Shadowed figures of prisoners trapped on either side of him made him on edge- nervous, really. They had eyes that glittered eerily at him, yet they were ghostly, dark, smoky shapes that seemed to embody people.

Something recognizable crossed through his head, another déjà vu, yet he couldn’t place it, nor could he shake the feeling he was supposed to know very well what that recognizable thing was.

Bloody typical.

Also, as usual.

“We meet again.”

Eames leapt back in alarm, against the bars of his cell, and let out an exclamation of fright. The person before him only laughed, a strange, almost inhuman filter over his voice. Although, he supposed, the mask covering nearly his entire head could be the cause.

He gaped openly at the man, or rather, the monster which seemed to slightly embody a man. He was tall, broad, and absolutely ripped all over. As in, near animalistic-type shredded with bulk and muscle. His head was shaved, and over it was a heavy mask that encased everything but his browbone and eye area, along with bits of his forehead and the sides of his face. It looked something like a gas mask, with the two wide straps on the side and the one large one right up the middle.

“Familiar?” The man asked.

Eames was not quite sure how to answer that, since he hadn’t quite figured out for himself where that sensation of familiarity was coming from. He cautiously put his fists at the ready, though he knew it would be a fight he was unlikely to win.

“I should take that as a no, then.”

The man took a step forward, lunged, and swung heavy and hard with his fist. He managed to escape, dodging under it, and aiming one for the stomach. He hit it hard enough for any normal human being to be expected to stagger backwards, but he only felt a rock-hard wall before him, and heard another low chuckle. His fist remained planted on his abdomen, and he gulped, feeling the tightening of muscles as the masked man laughed.

Eames once told himself that if anything of that nature were to happen in fights, he took it as his cue to sod the whole “technique-precision” idea and just start swinging like mad. It was sort of a rule of his: if he was somehow clearly outmatched from the beginning, he would just unleash everything that he had.

No better time than the present, he supposed.

Eames spun, kicking the legs out from under the masked man. After only a slight stumble, he threw his whole-body weight at him, enough to really make him stumble, and then he punched him- hard. Directly to the mask, he hit, over and over again, until he cried out in pain, paused, gasped at the blood pouring from his knuckles, then found his neck pinned against the stone wall, and his feet risen from the ground.

“How painfully quick a fight for you.” The man hummed, sardonically. “I’m disappointed.”

He panted, somehow worn out, and it made no sense, but Eames just could not do it. He could put up no resistance. His limbs were limply hanging from his body, utterly useless, and he realized his overwhelmingly weak position with a surge of fear. He looked into the eyes of a killer, the eyes of a terrifying creature who he was near willingly letting strangle him to death. Blood from his hands spattered on the ground, dripping, dripping, dripping. Agonizingly slow as he continued to look into the green, grey, and blue eyes.

They were his eyes.

_His._

Those eyes widened, frighteningly, and the man once again spoke through his mask. “Ah, so now you see, Eames. Don’t you?”

The monster was him.

All he could to was stammer at this version of him and heard his distinctly less impressive voice trembling at his own self… somehow before his own self. “I- you- how-? You’re not me, you are not- “

“Of course, I am!” Came the smooth reply. “You just don’t want to know about it. You’ve only just noticed me, Eames.”

_The monster was him, the monster was him, the monster was him, the monster was him._

With a quick regaining of some strength, he clawed at the iron fists around his neck, suddenly gasping in an attempt to draw breath. “Who- who are you?”

He was beginning to lose all his air, his lungs on fire, and those staring eyes boring into him, the sounds of the calm breathing behind the man’s mask, and his blood slicked hands still just dripping onto the floor only increasing his terror. The man blinked at him, tilted his head slightly, his voice taking on an amused tone.

“Are you suggesting we name your inner demon?” The masked man sounded a bit incredulous, but turned his gaze upwards in thought, anyway.

_It was him, it was him, it was him, it was him, it was him, it was him, it was him, it was him._

“What would we do, Eames? What sort of a title would we endow upon the monster within? A short name? Or one more elaborate? I could remain Eames, simply to torment you. Knowing that this is you. Now why would I want to destroy myself, you may wonder.” He paused. “The answer is simple. I am destroying whatever good is left in you, and in your place will be me, the you you’ve always kept hidden. I’m helping you realize who you are. Who you could be.”

_Him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him._

Eames was almost unconscious: he could feel his eyes rolling back into his head and his racing thoughts blacking out into the welcome abyss, where he was free of his nightmare. His lungs burned with fire and pressure, threatening to explode, stars burst in front of his eyes and the surrounding world darkened. But the man in the mask spoke one last time, and ensured he stayed awake for it by loosening his grip just enough to keep him there, present, and in agony.

“Bane.” He said lowly. “And I am your reckoning.”

And with that, Bane kept eye contact with him the entire time as one hand came up slowly to his face, and before Eames could do more than feel his own eyes widen, and his head shake in pleading, the hand covered his mouth, wrapped around his face, the base of his neck- and with cold, bruising fingers, he twisted.

A crack.

Fire.

Pain.

Blood.

_HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM, HIM._

Eames screamed.


	5. Chapter Two: Arthur's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust is hard to come by.

** Chapter Two: Arthur’s Perspective **

 

“Hello, darling.”

Arthur grimaced in dreaded anticipation, turning around to place the face that went with the voice, the very British voice that was both rasping and a silk smooth purr all at once.

Eames stood framed in the door of the large hotel space they were both staying in, no longer on the couch, but in Arthur’s room, looking significantly more normal while leaning languidly against the doorway, one leg crossed over the other, his brown pointed shoe tipping the beige carpeted floor. His hands were shoved the pockets of his tan slacks. He was wearing his salmon button-down shirt, no longer ripped and dirty, and rolled up to his forearms, where his sun kissed skin showed, and the sculpted muscle of his broad shoulders and chest stretched tight across the fabric, shifting powerfully when he moved, over the inky black tattoos hidden underneath. His caramel brown hair was sleek in a usual side part, and his eyes were glimmering while his extremely plush, round, and sinful lips curved in a smirk. His indolently, subtly stubbled jaw tilted upward in what appeared to be slight jauntiness.

Arthur himself was in the process of dressing into his grey three-piece suit and had gotten to the vest over top of his crisp white button up, his red tie loosely around his neck. He put his hands on his hips, stopping his progress. He was much slighter, much leaner, than the forger was. He had more of a runner’s build, whereas Eames was more of a boxer looking type- in his body structure, at least. His deep brown hair was in its normal work style- loads of hair gel making it go straight back and away from his face. He pressed his own, thinner lips together, sharp brows contracting, and brown eyes wary and cautious of the man before him.

“What is it, Eames?” The point man asked in his own, American accent, feeling uneasy at the intrusion.

Eames frowned sadly at his unwelcome tone, thick lashes blinking at him innocently. “I only thought you’d like to see me.”

Arthur sighed heavily, giving him an exasperated look, while his hand moved to slyly grip the handgun in his pocket, warm metal pressing against his leg. “You need to stop doing this.” He deadpanned.

The other man pushed off the wall, playfully grinning again as he took a few slow steps toward him, morning light dancing shadows across the room as his figure moved in front of them. “Doing what?”

He stepped back, glaring. “Like you don’t already know. Stop coming here to seduce me, Mr. Eames.”

In reply, he got a shake of the head and a tongue clicking noise that probably meant he didn’t like the answer he got. Eames rolled his eyes and looked to the side, appearing to be hesitating, then made eye contact again. His gaze was something deeper than a few moments ago, and suddenly his whole being gained a new clarity, and his voice an entirely new dimension as he said, “Technically speaking, you’re the one who is coming to me.”

Arthur had to double take, panicking, as his stomach made a sickening swoop. It was getting far too out of hand, and even more so than he’d originally thought was even possible; Eames was beyond his control. Eames wasn’t supposed to be there. He needed to stay asleep on the couch, stay drunk, and leave him alone. After what had happened, Arthur couldn’t deal with it- not then- not with so much going on. He just couldn’t do it. His suspicions had been confirmed and it was no longer safe. Especially if Eames himself was beginning to pick up on it.

“I didn’t mean to.” He eventually spat, with as much gusto as he could.

The forger looked entirely unfazed as he said, with one hand coming out to twirl in a bored gesture of the room they were in, “You really did, darling. In fact, I’m only here because you called for me. You wanted me to come here, just like you keep on doing, asking me to- no- making me come to be with you.”

Arthur jolted, provoked, and Eames rolled his eyes.

“Please, Arthur, I was drunk, but you really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

He swallowed, and said quietly, “No. I knew.”

Eames looked very carefully at him before he nodded, that time as though satisfied with the response. “You need to stop confusing yourself so much and just… decide for me, darling.”

“Decide what-?”

Eames took another step forward, in one long stride wrapping his arms around Arthur soothingly, rubbing circles over his back and arms with his large, artist’s hands, and expertly removing his hands from the gun he’d had tightly been fingering in his pocket.

He was enclosed with warmth and the smell of Eames, which was deep and rich, like smoky, bittersweet chocolate and a sharp muskiness that reminded him of fresh mint leaves or lemon zest, and something earthy like pine and sweetly decadent like melted sugar all at once. The smell he caught every time he moved past him was intoxicating, and Arthur nearly broke down right then and there, but he caught himself and stiffened instead, lifting his head from the crook of Eames’ neck as he remembered again.

Bile crept into his throat, and he pushed away from him roughly, hating himself even as he did so, especially when Eames whole posture just looked hurt and betrayed.

“Stop it.” His voice came out with a slight crack in it, reflecting the dignity he felt going out with it. “Now you’re trying to know too much. You can’t, you shouldn’t know- even try to assume that in the first place! I’m sick of the games, Eames, and yours is getting out of control.”

His green, blue, golden, and grey eyes, too intelligent for his own good normally, flitted dangerously over the point man. Eames slunk to the side of Arthur, speaking lowly in his ear, with a new bitterness and an almost accusatory emotion in his voice, “So, this is my game now, hm?”

He opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again, to which he got another one of the tongue clicking noises and a husky laugh, though Eames still had that horrible look in his eyes.

“But you’re the one who started the game- you’ve gotten yourself out of control, not me, Arthur. What have I really done? I’m just playing along. I’m only doing what you’ve asked of me. What you’ve told me. You did this to me- to both of us.”

Arthur set his jaw, even as his voice shook, the weight and truth of his accusations bearing down on him. He let his own helplessness show, and felt his eyes beginning to well with held back tears, stinging at the corners of his eyes. “I know I did. I’m sorry, Eames. I can’t- I just can’t- “

A soft kiss, pillow plush and saccharine from the tenderness of those full lips, pressed against his cheek. “Why won’t you just accept me, darling? You’re so afraid it isn’t real that you push me away.” He frowned. “Yet, you _were_ the first to kiss me.”

The tears fell, streaming down his face freely- no one else was there to see, so it didn’t matter. “Because- because- “He broke off, letting out a feeble sob, teeth still grit.

Eames made shushing noises, gently cupping his face. They were mere inches away from each other, and Arthur felt himself drawn magnetically closer, automatically to him. Eames gave him an air so filled with love, so passionate and genuine that he couldn’t help but believe it. Over the past few years, he had been losing himself. His strength. It all came crashing down in one single moment.

“Because what?” His voice was the quietest whisper, his image sharpening and wavering in front of him.

His tears kept flowing, and he choked out another sob as he forced himself to say the one thing he simply couldn’t bear to say, yet had to every time. “Be-because it can’t be r-real.”

The room simultaneously flickered, lights threatening to go out, as his face clouded for an instant, dark, and frighteningly shadowing into an unfathomable look, but then it was gone, and Eames smiled again at him. “Was that kiss not real last night? Of course, it was. I can show you it is.”

“Eames- “

The forger kissed him then, full on, sucking at his mouth openly, and as Arthur grabbed his face back, he felt that Eames had his own tears falling, sliding slowly down his cheeks. It was even more fervent and penetrating than their first kiss, somehow, more vibrant, more chaotic, more star-exploding than the one that haunted him. He brushed the tears away and kissed him harder, as Eames tightly embraced him, their bodies intertwined together. He roved his hands over his body, exploring every inch of it while he could, while it lasted, because then, tremblingly, he slid his hand over Eames’ firm chest and down his abdomen, but then back to his pocket, where he surreptitiously drew out his gun, lifted it, and put it to his temple.

He hated himself, but he knew it was the only way, even if it meant breaking Eames yet again, he had to. It wasn’t until he clicked off the safety that Eames opened his eyes wide- unguardedly fearful as he took in what Arthur was about to do with immediate clarity.

“I’m sorry.” He shut his eyes as tightly as he could, finger tightening around the trigger.

He’d shot a gun a million times yet couldn’t muster up the courage to do it once more. Just one more time.

“Darling…”

Arthur opened them again, daring himself to look Eames in the eyes before it was gone. “You’re not real.”

He pulled the trigger, ears ringing as Eames screamed his name; but not before catching the face of Dom Cobb in the doorway, shouting simultaneously with the forger, and with horror unmistakably written on his face.

........................................

 

Arthur jolted himself awake, quickly sitting himself up and removing the tube pumping the sedative into his veins. He rubbed his wrist, and sagged forward with his head bent over his knees, elbows resting on them. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and what was worse, Dom had probably seen all of it, at least enough to know. He could hear him rustling in the recliner next to him as he disconnected himself from the line, and he held his breath, bated, waiting for all of hell to rain down on him. Arthur was the point man: he was precise, steady. But he’d just shown the most vulnerable part of himself, the aching in his soul that made him weak and fragile, to the man he had been constantly supporting himself.

“Arthur.” Dom finally spoke, voice heavy. “I had no idea.”

He let out a crude laugh, short, harsh, and forced, still staring at the floor. “Yeah, I know. After we helped you get rid of the projection of Mal, that you created in your dreams and were letting it just eat you away, I end up making one for myself. Haven’t learned, apparently.”

Dom put a hand on his knee, surprisingly gentle. “It’s not just that.” He said. “It’s… Eames? How long have you…?”

Arthur winced, sitting up and looking to his right, where Cobb was eyeing him with concern, thick brows drawn together and his bright blue eyes searching.

The previous night, he’d actually kissed him, but Eames was horribly drunk while doing so, and after waking up in the middle of the night with a nightmare he wouldn’t talk about, Arthur had carefully come to realize that Eames didn’t even remember it happening. Apparently, both of them had their own nightmares to deal with, and Arthur was left in the heart-wrenching position of knowing the forger didn’t remember Arthur’s confession, his own confession, or the kiss they shared, and instead just woke up being hung over and irritable. On top of it all, he was being additionally secretive about why he’d started out of his slumber in the middle of the night (still drunk) and screaming like he was being murdered.

Seriously screaming.

Eames. Didn’t. Scream.

Arthur twisted his hands together, assuming what he hoped was a light, all business tone. “I mean, you can’t not admit he’s undeniably attractive to look at and listen to, I’ve always known that, just like anyone who’s ever met him and had three minutes conversation with him. But then I just started to… see things in him, then I concluded that I had to protect him, or guard him somehow- I don’t know- he just looks so… It’s been since the Inception job, and that was three years ago.”

Dom’s eyes squinted in disbelief, and he rolled his eyes at him.

“Well, fine, it was longer- but I _realized_ it, then. How much I’d come to care for him. It was when he was just standing here, in this room, telling us about Fischer’s subconscious projection of Browning, and how we could self-generate the idea with just his own thoughts, and I just kind of saw this pure genius; I interrupted him just to tell him I was impressed. It was really stupid. He only thought I was mocking him because I always shove him off and pretend I don’t like him, so I just got one of those sarcastic replies and he spun around to look at something else. Something about it seemed off, and you can never really tell with Eames, but that time I could. He really didn’t believe me.”

Dom was gazing at him very intently, arms crossed over his chest. Arthur could feel his embarrassment, hot in his face, but his long-time friend and boss didn’t seem to mind the explosive and jumbled rambling. He’d pent up that mess for years, and when he was suddenly caught off guard, he just let it all out as if he’d never thought about keeping his sorry mouth shut before. The valve was beginning to burst.

Cobb smiled wryly. “So, to keep yourself under check on the outside, you created what you wanted with him in your head, and then it turned from a fantasy to an intense need, then to rouge projection which morphed itself into a fully-fledged shade of him, and now this semi-realistic, terror version of Eames has practically taken over your subconscious. Right?”

Arthur hated the way it sounded, but there was no getting around the matter, and no condescension in Dom’s voice as he spoke, unlike the comment Eames had made that one time when Arthur tried telling him he was impressed with Eames’ sheer brain power. Or rather, his condescension.

_Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur, thank you._

“Sounds about right.” He muttered, unwilling to mention the previous night.

Dom stood, and pointed an arm at the door, a good eight feet away from them. “You know? Eames is here, right outside that door, and Yusuf and Ariadne- we’re all working today.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, making to interrupt, because truthfully, he was unable to see why the obvious information was relevant, especially as he was typically responsible for driving Eames, but Cobb kept talking over him, raising his voice slightly. Arthur stood up from his chair too, frowning at him as he continued.

“It’s a busy day for everyone, and it’s a Friday, so I say, we go out for drinks, and at some point, today, I don’t care when, you come out and tell him. Otherwise, you’ll destroy yourself and any chance of even facing Eames with hope of a good outcome. You need to say something.”

“But what if- “

Cobb put up a hand, effectively silencing him once more. “For one, he is on no account getting wasted again. And for two, he likes- no, loves you back, Arthur. I know what love looks like, trust me. I may suck at it myself, but I know. He’s just as infatuated with you as you are with him, I’ve seen you two from the day you met, and always just waited for it to happen. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Arthur stared at him. “This is Eames we’re talking about, here. It’s his job to lie, flirt with people, be a sarcastic, posh, British super mind who can also physically beat you into the ground, handle guns and grenades and wear ridiculous and expensive shirts while doing so. Literally. He’s like James Bond with a lot less sophistication.”

His boss pursed his mouth tightly together, in a way that suggested Arthur was somehow missing something screaming right in his face. He put up his hands, openly. Dom shook his head in response, mussed up his dirty blonde hair, and sagged in defeat, locks of it falling into his eyes. But then, he just as quickly sprung up again, shock on his face. Arthur started in equal shock and alarm, hand going automatically to his pocket, where he kept a decent gun constantly on him.

“Arthur!”

He kept his hand right where it was, other arm bracing in front of himself and his posture bristled. “Cobb?”

“You- Eames- he- “ _Yet, you were the first to kiss me_?” He said that! Did you and Eames actually- last night, the drinks, today- “

He tensed even more, if possible. Now that was a story he did not want to tell. Just at that moment, Yusuf, Ariadne, and Eames himself all burst into the room, Yusuf shouting in a loud voice, while Ariadne and Eames talked even louder, the conversation unintelligible, besides a few words here and there.

As he watched him storm by, he observed that Eames was doing quite well for being massively hung over- so well he couldn’t have guessed if he hadn’t been there, dealt with it, and known. It made Arthur wonder, in a horrid realization, how often it happened. At the same time, he felt Dom’s eyes on him from behind, as though they were both thinking the same thing, but he didn’t look back.

Yusuf was carrying a test tube high above his head, and was wearing his chemist’s goggles and lab jacket, face scowling, but his insanely dark, chestnut brown eyes were full of amusement. Ariadne gave Arthur and Dom both a relieved look when she saw they were out of the dream state, and approached them immediately.

“Thank goodness you’re both up- Yusuf really wants to test his new compound, and we need you.”

He and Dom exchanged looks. “Neither of us feel we can go under again.” Cobb supplied for him. “We both just went and came up around five minutes ago.”

Ariadne toyed with her navy cardigan sleeves, and shook her head at them, her waves of hair flowing over her shoulders. “No, no, you don’t need to go under. But I’m busy developing the first level of the dream and Yusuf can’t stay to watch the effects of the mixture; he has a few other runners for what we’ll use for the sedative and he needs to solidify them first- so Eames is the only one who can be sedated right now, and he needs to practice his forge anyway, but we need you to test him while he’s out. We have to make sure he responds properly to it.”

Arthur blinked at the slight overload of information the young, breathless brunette had just delivered, but he got the general gist of it, so he gave her a reassuring look, flashing his dimples. “We got it.”

Her face brightened.

Yusuf, overhearing the conversation, exhaled in evident gratitude. “Bloody good for that, too. We need to get this one- “He jerked a thumb at Eames, who glared back. “-to shut up.”

“Sedating me with untested chemicals seems to be the solution, darling.” Eames snorted, sauntering over to Arthur, and throwing an arm over his shoulder casually, leaning against him so that the sensual smell of Eames hit him like a wall of hypnotic lust, even better than it was in his dream. He didn’t seem to notice the impact it was having on him. “Seems logical, yes?”

He gave him his usual, fake reaction instead of what he would rather do, which involved holding him back and smiling at his intriguing, startlingly handsome face. Instead of any of that, he set his face into cool disinterest. “Highly, Mr. Eames. Someone needs to get your mouth closed.”

He dropped his voice into that trained seductiveness as way of a response, his eyes hooded, pupils intentionally dilated with an act so well done none would have guessed it wasn’t real. But Arthur knew it wasn’t, no matter what had happened in Dom’s hallway. Eames smiled at him. “Would you like to try, Arthur?”

Everyone broke into laughter. They knew it, too.

He shook himself free of Eames’ grip, scuffing him over the head and straightening his suit, also muttering an apology to Dom as he bumped into him. He got a returned look that told him to get on with it already, and that he was still missing something. Eames stepped back, ducking his head, and running a hand through his light brown hair. Yusuf grinned at him widely, and he returned it… well, sort of. He gave a brief ghost of a smile, and returned his attention to Arthur, an odd expression on his face, one that even Arthur hadn’t dreamed up, and couldn’t if he tried.

Cobb gave him a slight nudge, but he ignored it still, and kept his voice clipped when he said, “No, no… I’m sure you’ve got a pretty impressive line, and I have things to do.”

Eames’ eyebrow arched upward, his head cocked slightly to the side. “Whatever do you mean, pet?”

“Only that you flirt with people all the time, and they all seem pretty interested in returning the favor. You’ve got hundreds of people who’d be dying to just look at you. But- you already knew that.”

The forger gave him a look of deep disgust. “I do my job, thank you, Arthur. Do you know how many other people I’ve had to make hate me? Or fear me? I may not crunch numbers and stalk targets all day, but it isn’t all just skipping around and batting my eyes at people in dreams, and especially when I have to infiltrate outside of the subconscious, I’ve got loads more technical problems besides that.”

He flinched painfully. Eames had an uncharacteristically raw look on his face, one that seemed like it wasn’t doctored or put on, and the expression he wore told of regret, and he even looked a bit upset at Arthur’s harsh assumption. But it was gone as quickly as it came, smoothed over to his poker face once again. He was missing the physical closeness in proximity already. If only he hadn’t reacted out of bitterness of something the forger didn’t even remember, then maybe he would understand. If only Eames remembered that kiss.

“Eames- “He started.

It seemed to be the unlucky day Arthur would never get a chance to speak, because then Eames was turning over his shoulder to call Yusuf again, as though he hadn’t heard him. “Got our testing sedative ready, then- yes?”

Eames’ fellow Englishman gave thumbs up affirmative, swirling the translucent contents of the testing tube in an exploratory way. He really looked like a mad scientist, with his messy black curls sticking out and his dark face all screwed up in concentration. Eames cracked a joke about getting all the good drugs for free, and Arthur once again rolled his eyes at him.

He then chanced a glance at Dom, who didn’t seem to approve of his method of “getting on with it.” He knew that he was right, of course, but he had always put professionalism over relationships, and so when they began to hopelessly mix, he was at a loss. He at least appreciated that Dom had his back- solidly- through all of it.

“Wonderful, so that means I’ll be having one of you gentlemen to poke and prod at me while I’m out.” Eames flitted his eyes from Cobb to the point man, inquisitorially.

“I need to work on the extraction, I can’t afford to cut any more time than we’ve already lost.” Dom put his hands on his hips, looking tired. “Not that I wouldn’t love to mess with you and that new compound or anything, Mr. Eames.”

Eames winked sardonically. “Oh, it’s great fun being the guinea pig, here, Dom- definitely.”

Dom laughed genuinely, throwing his head back. “Oh, I’m sure you’re a lucky man.” Arthur frowned. That sounded a bit too suggestive for his liking. And then, with that, Dom waved his farewell, and went to seclude himself in his makeshift office.

Arthur was left with the forger and the chemist, Eames already striding away towards his preferred chair, worn, plush and cushioned, like his protectively dominated couch in the snacking room. He seemed to have a peculiar fondness for all things squishy and comfortable, and it was an added bonus if they were lived in and somewhat vintage.

Arthur watched him walking away, in his silk, pale blue and creamy orange shirt, vertically striped and loosely tucked into a pair of navy slacks. He really did wear outlandish clothing, but it somehow looked fantastic on him. He admired the sculpted curvature of his backside, and the visible divot in his spine, the way his athletic shoulders rippled as he walked. He threw himself casually into the chair, legs crossed and a hand tracing his lip. Eames eyed him curiously, and it was only then that he realized he had still been staring.

“Observing my tactless fashion sense again?” Eames inquired smoothly, looking entirely unconcerned with Arthur’s opinion on his clothing.

He tried to keep down his blush, not wanting to reveal what he was really looking at. “It’s a bit distracting, you know.”

He grinned, never enough to show his teeth, and always giving nothing away. “Oh, naturally, Arthur.”

Yusuf came over, and began dumping the contents of the solution into the tubes connecting to the PASIV while Eames took the IV and rather clumsily tried attaching himself to the line. Arthur huffed, swatted Eames’ hand away, got a defensive noise of protest, ignored it, and made quick work of hooking his wrist up properly for him. To that, he got a grateful, barely-there trace of Eames’ free hand on the back of his shoulder that he wasn’t sure if he imagined or not. He never met his eye as he did so, kept his expression exactly the same, and only let his artist’s fingers linger over the very outside folds of the fabric for a few seconds before they withdrew, leaving that same uncomfortable emptiness behind.

He wondered if that was one of the “signs” Dom was talking about, and cautiously tested the weight of his die, his totem, in his pocket to make sure he was really awake. If only Eames hadn’t been drunk. Had he taken advantage of him? Arthur didn’t know Eames would go and have even more shots to the point where Arthur had to drag his drooling face out the door, then, when Eames woke up screaming, brushed it off irritably, and didn’t seem to have any memory of the whole kissing scene even later into the morning, Arthur realized he may have made the situation even worse.

Telling someone that was not easy, by any stretch of the imagination- which would definitely be needed for Eames to really believe that they’d both admitted feelings and made out in a darkened hallway of Dom’s house. He might believe him. The forger was known for his infinitely vast imagination and bright creativity.

He studied Eames, whose gaze was upturned towards Yusuf, busy finishing setting up the device, and oblivious to Arthur’s scrutiny. Once he completed the task, Yusuf rubbed his hands together and exhaled, a sign that he was probably nervous about what the compound may do. An involuntary muscle in Eames’ jaw twitched slightly in response, the only sign on his part that showed his reluctance. Arthur wished it wasn’t Eames he was testing it on, but almost instantly revolted against that thought, reminding himself that there were others to think of besides just himself and his own want to protect Eames from anything and everything.

“Right, mate.” Yusuf began. “So, this one will be stronger in the fact that you’ll drop deeper faster, and generate your ideas quicker in the dream, but it should hopefully also eject you more immediately when you first feel the kick- and your recovery time should also be better than the sedative would normally allow in an unaltered form, so… hopefully, we’ll have no fallout there.”

Eames processed the information, then filled in his part. “Lot of “hopefully” in that sentence, isn’t it? Anyway, my job is to go in there, on an experimental drug, work on forging whoever I’m being for this new job, and meanwhile just sit here asleep so Arthur can eventually kick me out of my chair to scare me awake?”

He snickered. “Aren’t you lucky to be the forger?”

“Dom mentioned as much.” Eames replied drily, finally sparing him a glimpse of eye contact. “Just try not to bruise me too badly, yeah?”

“No guarantees.” He shrugged back, and pressed the button before Eames could react.

He gasped and jerked up as it hit him, then his eyes immediately rolled back into his head at the release of the sedative into his system, and his cheek slumped onto his shoulder, not at all gracefully. Eames had passed out near instantaneously, and by the looks of it, he was already fully submerged. Arthur wasn’t sure if he liked the harshness of which Eames had been dropped under, and neither did Yusuf. He pulled out a pen and notepad, pressing them against Arthur’s chest while giving Eames a very concerned look.

It worried him a lot if the experimental chemist himself was worried, too.

“Yeah, that was definitely a rough one, but… he’s always been a sensitive little thing.”

Arthur scoffed. “Little?” He asked, incredulously.

Yusuf pulled a face. “It’s relative. He’s internally a complete and utterly pathetic baby. I always have to tweak things with him- never once has he been satisfied off the bat- it’s always, “Oh, I’m so terribly dizzy, oh Yusuf- how faint I am- I feel as though I might pass out again, oh, Yusuf, I can’t feel my tongue, my brain is all sorts of fuzzy, oh, please fix it, Yusuf, my legs are absolute jelly and I can’t walk straight, please help me, Yusuf, this one makes me piss myself and that last one made me-“

Arthur frowned deeply at him. The chemist gave him a severe look back that very clearly told him he wasn’t exaggerating in the slightest, to which he had no good reply.

“We do still need to adjust the severity a tad, though.” Yusuf admitted. “He’s probably going to be really disoriented when he wakes up, which isn’t what we want, of course, so… take notes on him, will you?”

Arthur began jotting down observations right away, not bothering to respond, and then the chemist left him to go finish his development of some of the other types that would hopefully be easier on the system. It was just him and Eames in the room, and Arthur dutifully did his job, writing neat notes on the first stage of the test.

After he’d gotten it all down, he re-read it, and, being satisfied with his detailed work, turned his attention back to a sleeping Eames.

He looked very peaceful while asleep, at least besides the fact that his neck was awkwardly twisted over onto his collarbone and his cheek was all squished up. His fingers twitched, desiring to fix it and perfect the image. There was no one else around, and besides, Eames would hopefully be more comfortable when he woke up. He paused, hand outstretched.

Hopefully, if he woke up.

Hopefully, only if his conditions were stable.

He was a worrier, as constantly reminded by the reckless Eames, he worried far too much and needed to think outside of his coffee and neat files. But Arthur wasn’t without a worthy cause for his concern. Ariadne had once had a chemical mishap and ended up in a coma for two days, and one might think that after that, Yusuf should be fired, but when compared to the rest in his industry, a dreamshare chemist with only one (he pleaded it wouldn’t become two) coma or other accidental incidences was an extremely good thing, especially because there had been no fatalities at all in his career. Not one person who had died as a result of a bad formula, and that was what made Yusuf the best. It was a better track record than any others could really account for, which is why, if given a choice, Yusuf was the only elected chemist for their operations.

As the overwhelming desire once again struck him, Arthur finished the motion and gave in, cupped the forger’s cheek in his palm, and slowly eased his head up to rest against the back of his chair, slightly turned to the right and away from him. He found it fascinating how, when he was unconscious, any lines on Eames’ face smoothed out, his expression blank, truly blank, and one that he was convinced was only let loose when Eames literally couldn’t feasibly alter it himself. The slight crease between his brows vanished, the arch softened, his mouth lost the almost constant hint at a dark smirk, lips relaxed, the muscles over his high cheekbones unwound this strange, held tension, one that most wouldn’t even pick up on in the first place, and his vividly colored, ever changing, ever thinking, ever searching and all-knowing eyes closed, with his lashes softly fluttering against his lightly tanned cheek, the final touch making it all the calmer as he beheld him.

A shudder passed through him- the exact way Eames’ voice had cracked last night, moonlight cast onto his screwed-up face, yelling for help and moaning words of agony and senseless pleas in his sleep shattered the image he’d just been admiring. He let his hand retreat.

Eames didn’t shift or indicate any signs that he had felt it, which was a good sign in the sense that he wasn’t supposed to, yet one that bothered him distinctly, as the sedation seemed overly deep already. He decided it would be an appropriate time to begin testing his reactions, or rather, his lack of reactions.

Arthur reached out yet again and wrapped his hands around Eames’ biceps, the muscle there finally lenient from its usual thrumming tension that he’d taught himself to recognize over the years. He shook Eames roughly, saying his name urgently as he did so. Nothing. He didn’t react.

He let him go, no less assured, and instead thought back to when he, the point man had first met Eames, the forger- just to give him something else to think about. He was with Dom, as per usual, and the client had been Saito, the billionaire business man who was a fairly regular client, at least as their line of work went.

They’d had to keep on searching for new forgers each job, no matter who they were working for, and ended up with double crossers, bailers, and ones who simply just didn’t make the cut, skill wise. A good forger was near impossible to find.

So, when they’d met in a large office room of Saito’s large office tower, he wasn’t altogether surprised that he’d taken matters into his own hands, and had a conductive search done for an adequate forger, one that would click well with his favorite extractor, Dom, and himself, ever present in his role as the point man. Not necessarily personality wise, but rather, he pinpointed Eames as the right technical fit for Cobb and Arthur, all aiding Saito in whatever person of status he was planning on derailing next. Eames knew full well how to handle guns and explosives, knew physical combat and high precision technique, and was definitely built for it.

He was described to them by Saito as intelligent, cunning, and dangerous, yet most importantly, he was entirely fearless, so he wouldn’t just chicken out. He had, as Saito put it, “nothing to lose,” but with a curious loyalty and recklessness to go with it. “Very curious, I would think.”

He had told them all this as they went up the elevator and down the blandly decorated, white and grey colored hallway. Eames had entered the room stealthily, after Saito had ushered him and Dom in first, he slipped from the shadows behind the door and came in right before Saito had. The little stunt had almost gotten him shot, though, as Arthur caught an unfamiliar face out of the corner of his eye and whipped around, drawing his gun without hesitance. He’d expected Saito’s Asian facial features, and instead gotten a younger, and far more alluring face that he had not seen before.

The forger had only put out his hands slightly and murmured an “Easy, darling,” in response to the threat on his life, but he acutely recalled the way his body had coiled in a trained, and very well-trained manner, speaking of power and experience, his relative ease in concealing it pegging him deadlier than Arthur had already suspected, and someone that even he would be afraid to trifle with.

After the, well- frankly, the blackmailer known as Saito had laughed at the reactions he’d produced and informed them of who the incredibly attractive man was, Eames had smiled slightly and easily pushed his stunned expression and still drawn gun aside, Dom beside him looking decently interested in the newest forger attempt, though there was skepticism in his eyes.

“What’s your name, again?” He’d asked curiously.

Eames had slid his hands into his pockets, the pockets of the faded, skinny, distressed jeans that went with a soft grey sweatshirt, bunched up so that his jet-black tattoos were exposed, and to top it all off, white skateboarding shoes, though they looked lived in and actively used. His face had been clean shaven and his hair messier, the slightly rebellious look being one that Arthur had later known to be an act. He was keeping himself undercover from a group of thugs who had somehow traced him from a double crosser in a previous job, and hadn’t bothered to change for the meeting.

“Eames.” He had replied, in an accent that was like Dom’s and his. American, and not his own. It was filled with more attitude, and more naïve a tone than Eames normally conveyed. He took out a hand, fiddling it vaguely at Saito. “Cigarette?” He inquired, not even looking at Cobb.

Saito had rolled his eyes, and given Eames an exasperated expression even as he handed over the requested item, causing Arthur to curl his lip in slight disdain; he hated cigarettes. “You may drop the act, Mr. Eames.” Saito nodded. “I assure you that these men will not upheave your cover.”

Fumbling with a lighter in his pocket that he eventually managed to pull out, the forger lit his cigarette and took one long drag, releasing it slowly from between his cherry lips in a white stream of smoke. Eames studied Arthur and Dom both, his eyes seeming to stay a bit longer on Arthur, but then he nodded too, and his whole posture shifted, his brows lifted, his mouth tilted, lips doing that one strange thing, filling out to their natural fullness that he always underplayed for reasons still unknown to him, while his eyes glimmered with brilliance and understanding, and his voice immediately became the sexiest thing Arthur had ever heard in his entire life.

“If you insist, Mr. Saito. Only testing the waters, a bit.” He drawled, voice low and purring in his natural English accent, almost as though the cigarette had sucked out all the fake American-ness. “Arthur darling and Mr. Cobb hadn’t even picked up on it yet, isn’t that right, darling?” He addressed the last part to Arthur, who kept back an unprofessional blush.

“It was obvious.” He lied.

Eames, naturally, saw straight through it. “Perhaps, but not quite as obvious your lying about it just was.”

Dom sniggered, but turned it into a hasty cough at Arthur’s angry glower. It was during the times when Mal was still around, and Cobb was a happier man- more vibrant and full of his own light. He had returned his burning look to the forger, who gave him a sarcastic wink in return and blew another puff of smoke into his face.

He had hated Eames right off the bat, but the growing warmth in his pants and the strange want of knowledge for more about him said otherwise: especially when he rapidly became an occasional, then a go to, then the regular, and then the only forger in practically all of their jobs, no matter who they were working for. He got the chance to observe him more and more all the time, though he couldn’t find any concrete data on him, as Eames knew how to cover his tracks well. He would pretend to protest, but Dom always brought him on, somehow always worked him into the team, even when he wasn’t strictly needed, per say.

Privately, Arthur appreciated him more than anyone- even Dom Cobb, who he’d known for even longer than Eames. He felt a sort of obligated, protective attachment to him, though he knew he hid it well. He felt, at times, and though he knew it was stupid, that he could understand Eames. He felt like he could interpret the covers and the white lies, the deceptive and elusive wisps of hinted personality that made up Eames. It was like trying to catch smoke in the air with nothing but your bare hands. It only filled your lungs and made you choke on it. Arthur was more than determined to catch Eames- suffocate and weaken him as it may.

He shook himself back to the present, noticing his pen was verging on slipping out of his hand. He quickly adjusted his grip on it, twirled it point down, and took notes on what he’d seen once again.

A horrible idea came to him.

_Eames does remember last night, it’s just a little too deep in his subconscious right now to be accessed… unless I go under with him- stimulate his mind, see what it’s like down there… and help him remember._

And just like that, a far from well-constructed plan was formed, and Arthur made one of the most emotionally reckless and illogical decisions of his life.

He went under with him.


	6. Chapter Two Continued: Eames' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never according to plan, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of Eames' perspective. The perspective usually shifts with each "chapter" post, but since the next one is so long, and this one is decently sized, I've split it into two for your reading comfort. :)

** Chapter Two Continued: Eames’ Perspective **

****

Eames was staring into the mirror, vainly attempting to forge something- anything- that could be what he needed for the Bruce Wayne operation. He sneered back at a thin, pale figure with bulging green eyes and a shock of white hair, then tilted his head slightly.

More wrinkles, perhaps… but make the hair a darker shade of grey?

He blinked at the transformation. No, indeed. That had certainly done nothing to the avail.

Scratch that idea altogether. New plan, entirely different direction. A female antagonist was always great fun, so he decided to at least give it a go.

He imagined her tall, slender, but with a decent chest that went down to a trim waist and tighter hips. He pictured the slightly intimidating leer of her perfect posture, and the slight smirk on her face. He painted the dark, smudged eyeliner- not enough to be edgy and obvious, but enough to create mystery and allure. Fair, shining skin that looked kissed by morning dew, and bright hazel eyes. Auburn hair that was in a wavy bob, and an elongated neck up to a square face shape with full, pouting lips that were ever so slightly rose bitten to match the flush high on her cheeks. Angular brows, one always slightly raised above the other in perfectly groomed perfection, with long, clumping black eyelashes below to contrast. Wide, catlike eyes and a straight, thin nose. He altered her posture slightly, with her chest out more in a way that was almost slightly flirtatious. Black blazer and slacks to match with heels and a cream blouse. He smiled in the mirror, testing the feel of it.

“Mr. Wayne,” A slightly breathless female voice supplied. He shook his head, a stray curl falling over his cheek. He brushed it back smoothly and tried again. “Mr. Wayne.” That time it was still light and airy, but cooler, more calculative. “Mr. Wayne?” Raspier, higher, more seductive.

Still nothing close to what he wanted.

Eames dissolved into himself again, irritated at the unusual lack of ideas, and promptly blaming the hang-over for it all. He warily eyed his rough reflection in the mirror, biting his lip while he attempted to think of something… “Something that inspires true fear without the need for the subconscious to question it.” He spoke aloud and squeezed his eyes shut. “Confusion, panic, pain, fear, chaos… most importantly, it must be immediately recognized as such.”

_That night. That room. The mask. The poison. The mask. His breath, choked against the mask that drugged his mind. His breath, choked from him by his own self mirrored into an image of his sins. Blood dripping from his hands. Confusion, panic, pain, fear, chaos. The mask. His mask. Their mask._

Eames opened his eyes. “Bane.” He whispered, and in the dream mirror Bane was. He gazed at himself. It was him, with a mask on, and an inhuman gleam in his eyes that settled, at that point, familiarly into him.

It was exactly what he needed.

His warped voice came through the gas mask, which he could feel actually flooding him with drugs, doing things somehow, strange things, to his mind that gave him strange memories of pain and anger, and eased him into a wild, heavy-lidded, unnatural state. It was as though he was more aware, more powerful, but teetering on the edge of slipping into a dazed overload of sedation.

He spoke, the terror-inducing voice then sounding broken and afraid- and exactly what he didn’t need. “I can’t do it.” He murmured to himself.

The reflection broke from mimicking him, and glared back angrily, but he shook his head at it, feeling the mask leave his face and a giant weight pressing off his chest. It was comforting to see his own blue shirt once again, but his counterpart didn’t seem to share his thoughts. Bane gave him that wide-eyed, intense look again, and stared at him for several seconds.

It was unnerving, but not enough to truly scare him, at least, before Eames realized that the mirror was gone, and it was just them together in the darkness- with Bane in full range to reach out and twist his neck again. Frozen to the spot, he was unable to do much more than glare back as Bane towered, making himself taller, over him.

“In time.” His voice crackled. He placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and cupped his face with that same hand, which had slid up his neck and onto his cheek. Bane nodded slowly at him. Then he was gone.

It should have made him sigh in relief, but instead, Eames broke down in pitiful fear once more and trembled from head to toe, scanning the darkness for that face to emerge, to kill him, to snap his neck again- to take him, consume his mind- to have another mirror that let him see what he had become, what the mask would do-

“Eames,” A voice whispered against the back of his neck.

He choked out a shout, spun around, fists flying back to meet- “Arthur! Oh, bloody hell, Arthur.” He sagged in relief, into the point man, though he was truthfully still being restrained by him, both his arms painfully twisted above him at an odd angle.

“Eames.” Arthur spoke cautiously, slowly, still holding him fast. “What are you doing down here?”

Fear jolted through him again, and he looked up at him, hearing his breath rattle in terror. Looked up? That wasn’t right. He’d fallen to his knees, somehow. How had he gotten there? More importantly, what was Arthur doing there? Was he even Arthur? Or Bane, AKA him incognito- double the incognito by assuming Arthur’s identity. What if _he_ was Bane incognito and Eames was just… the sheep’s clothing over the wolf?

“Thinking.” He replied, hoping he sounded confident and cool from his awkward position on the ground, held in a lock by Arthur the perfect little point man. “What are you doing here?”

He was surprised when Arthur reddened, and let him loose. “Only observing how it was going.” He said back. “Yusuf accidentally gave you a compound that pretty much knocked your socks off, so prepare for some major delirium and headaches once you get out.”

“Just what I needed. It’ll go brilliantly with the hang-over.” He sighed, standing up, Arthur assisting him.

“Actually- I… I was going to talk to you about that.”

Eames looked at their still conjoined hands, silently inquiring why it his hand was being squeezed so very tightly. “Erm… “

Arthur wrung his hand free as suddenly as though he had been burned and folded them over his chest without any sort of comment. “What do you remember about last night?”

He continued to stare. At least Arthur was bound not to notice that he was acting off if this strange conduct was the way _he_ was going to behave. “You are full of interesting remarks, today, darling.” He observed carelessly, to draw attention away from himself, but conceded to answer the question at the hard expression he received in return.

Well, he _cautiously_ conceded. If Arthur expected him to talk about the dream, or anything else personal or damaging he might have done last night, he was not going to give it up. He wasn’t sure if either he or Dom had informed him of what had happened the night _before_ the night before last, so an accidental slip would result in disaster, if he wasn’t careful.

“Right. We went to Dom’s for dinner and to discuss the Wayne operation. You, Dom, Yusuf, Ariadne, and myself. I ended up drunk enough to black out, which concluded all thought and memory for whatever else was part of the probably awkward evening.”

There was a long stretch of unpleasant silence, but that was it. He had finished.

“Erm… you also drove me… to your place.”

The point man was still waiting for something- who knows what- but something more. Evidence, perhaps? Arthur was all facts and logic, he was bound to like evidence, so he reached in thin air to supply some.

“I woke up there this morning.” He continued dumbly. “So, that’s how I… how I… know.”

Arthur frowned. “And _there_ you have Mr. Eames and his fantastic attempt at rubbing two mostly sober brain cells together.”

He snorted derisively. “Mostly sober? I assure you, my two measly little brain cells are entirely sober at the moment, Arthur.”

He nodded back. “Good to know. You’ll probably need them.”

It was his turn to frown. “Pray tell?” He asked.

“There are some things you should probably remember about last night, Eames.” His expression was unreadable, his voice empty. “We’re going to need to find them.”

“Ah… find them?” Arthur started walking away, Eames’ imagination supplying a dimly lit, old, dirty ransack of a house, eerie and full of flickering hallways and dark corners. None of it looked good, especially if his best mate was just lurking around somewhere and happened to run into them. Eames ran up in front of him, putting a hand firmly over his chest. “Wait a moment, hang on.”

Arthur looked mildly annoyed.

He patted the thinner man’s chest in a pacifying manner. “I am quite alright skipping the details where I fell on my face and you then heaved my fat old self out the front door, thank you. If I’m ever that drunk, Arthur, I usually don’t want to remember why. Just as a rule of thumb.”

Arthur grimaced, making him wonder if he did something very close along those lines, but all he said was, “No, this time you really do.”

He retreated his hand. “Why?”

Arthur had the grace break his mask to look absolutely and incredibly nervous, which only served to heighten his curiosity and his confusion. Arthur was uselessly silent.

“Bloody hell, Arthur, out with it.” He demanded, finally reaching his limits of yet another insufferable silence. “You’re acting completely out of- “

“And you’re not?”

“I- well, I- “

Arthur growled, rolled his eyes, and yanked him forward by the front. “I was going to do this the subtle way, Mr. Eames, but you are so uncooperative.” He muttered.

Then he kissed him.

And bloody hell. It all came back. Everything. Clashingly at once. Mind and memory accelerated in his dream-state: Eames suddenly had memories flooding in like a flash flood- every detail about their kiss, the promise of really talking, telling him of his brief imprisonment, his living hell, the one that Dom covered him on, diverted subjects across granite-topped counters while Arthur watched in dark-eyed suspicion that led to a confession of impossible feelings and Eames’ dire need to drink until he couldn’t remember why he started in the first place.

He wrenched himself free of Arthur’s grasp, in shock and having another mind-blowing invasion of panic. Shoving himself quickly away, he spun around, looking to see if Bane had seen any of that. Arthur appeared to be in mental agony, waiting for Eames to either hit him or kiss him again, but there was no time for it.

Instead, with as much ferocity as he could put into a whisper, he hissed, “Arthur! You could’ve completely jeopardized yourself! Do you realize what- “

“Jeopardized?” Arthur looked baffled, for once. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head, grabbing his (possible?) lover by the hand and dragging him down the friendliest looking hall and into a ransacked looking bedroom, where he shoved a fallen dresser in front of the door, and stacked broken bookshelves and chairs to complete the barricade, before backing against the peeling wall with his arms protectively in front of Arthur, who protested the entire time.

“Does this mean you remember what happened last night?” He asked, sounding only barely amused.

Eames nodded fervently, continuing to stare down the door and shield Arthur with both his arms out.

“This entire day, all I had to do was just knock you out and disturb your memories a little… are you handling this alright?”

“Shatteringly.” He craned his neck over his shoulder to look at his concerned friend. “Darling, really, I love you, but we have to be as silent as corpses for the time being. Please?”

“And what is going on with this dream? What is your subconscious doing? Eames? Does it feel like it’s the compound affecting you negatively? Eames!”

He shushed him, holding up his hand and listening intently for any signs of heavy footfall.

It came. And it continued to come closer and louder.

Bane was upon them.

His insides seized. “No, no, no- Arthur, quickly, we need to hide before- “

“Your mind is out of control!” Arthur snarled. “Before what? This is your dream- get a gun, put it to your head, and you shoot. Shoot, Eames! Don’t you remember? _Is this the compound messing with you_?”

He was really going to make him mad, and Eames despite the rather difficult circumstances, was not looking to do that in any sense. He turned and wrapped his arms around the tightly wound point man, attempting to comfort him. “Whisper, darling, whisper.” He instructed as gently as he could without giving away his fear. “I’ve got to convince him not to know about you- us- whatever happened last night and whatever may yet happen. Got it?”

Arthur looked annoyed when he clearly couldn’t understand a word. “No.” He replied bluntly.

Eames ignored it for the time being. “Right, well, there’s something here right now, and if he knows I have a love interest, it might not be… the smartest idea. To put it lightly.”

The brunette’s voice climbed higher in pitch again. “But _who_ is he?”

Eames debated. Footsteps creaked along floorboards. Truth would always out, yes? Besides, he’d just been kissed and thereby remembered he was kissed before that, so what did he have to give back to Arthur? Arthur- whom he had often admired, never touched, not really, always kept his distance because his feelings were threatening to be more, and he couldn’t handle them, it was a foreign concept, and they pulsed like bubbling acid on the brink of bursting in dangerous chemicals over everything. He took a slow breath. “Bane. And Bane is me.”

“You?”

“Yes, and he’s currently embodying my entire subconscious.”

Arthur suddenly had his all-knowing look back in his chocolate eyes. “You aren’t having a reaction to the sedative, then… He has a mask on his face.” He accused him in a tone that suggested he already knew, slowly deliberating each syllable so that it seeped in with nail-scraping clarity. “Doesn’t he, Mr. Eames?”

Eames remained silent.

Arthur looked cheated. “And you said they didn’t get to you.”

“Of course not.” He cut in.

“He’s fresh in your head- he’s never been here before, that’s obvious enough by your reactions. This explains everything- the screaming, the dream, the behavior, this…” Arthur sighed heavily, and when he spoke again, it was softer. “What did they do to you, Eames?”

He lowered his head in shame. “Nothing.”

“You can’t say nothing.” Arthur argued.

“You’re going to have to live with it for the time being.” He clipped, getting impatient that the true, dire reality wasn’t being understood.

“Did you tell Dom everything?” Something like jealousy tanged in his voice, but Arthur didn’t get jealous.

He ground his teeth. “No.”

 “But you were drugged yesterday morning; Dom found you rambling out of your mind at the front door- early- soaking wet and bleeding.”

“Yes.” He was really beginning to hate the whole number of vulnerability scenarios he’d recently become acquainted with, and the blunt, three-piece-suit perfection was no help.

And he didn’t stop. “So how do you know you didn’t start spilling everything out to him, then? You could have just cried and told him the whole story.”

“No, the drug was intended for me to remember my stupidity and embarrassing actions later.” He noticed his voice had a sarcastic edge to it and winced internally at the dry retort he got back.

“Well, they clearly knew you well.”

“Oh, really.” He gave his rather defensive reply his full sarcasm that time, pushing Arthur closer into the wall just to irritate him to the point of fuming silence.

“And if this thing- Bane, is already in your subconscious, and I’ve just made your subconscious force you to remember, then he already knows about it, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. It’s part of your conscious memory base now, it’s irreversible.” He continued, Eames’ plan clearly having failed.

Eames balled his hands into shaking fists, absolutely terrified. “Stop talking, darling.” He breathed.

He was ignored. “Just get a gun! This is how it works every time- to eject immediately, get a gun. This isn’t Inception, this is normal dream-state- Limbo isn’t possible here.”

“Actually, you said I’ll be delirious and dizzy when I wake up due to over-depth in the dream, but no, I do not deny that Limbo is far beyond unlikely.”

Arthur finally shoved himself from behind Eames to stand next to him, gun drawn and pointing at Eames’ face. “Then shoot.”

“No.” He said quietly.

“No?” Arthur laughed incredulously. “Why not?”

He carefully put his arms up in surrender, not looking to be shot in his head, and begging for Arthur to understand it. “He won’t let me die that way- I’ve either got to wait it out till the kick or let him kill me.”

“And you know this how?”

“Later.” It was short and snippy of him, not to mention a bit rude, but he had just heard the footsteps stop outside the door, where a tall shadow loomed outside it.

For the first time during his dream, Arthur finally shut his mouth and got the point. He turned towards the door and raised his gun at it. Eames felt cool metal suddenly resting against his thigh, through his pant pocket, and reached down to pull out the phantom-like gun that appeared out of nowhere, then following Arthur by clicking off his safety and aiming it at the door, soothed- in a peculiar way- with the idea that he could simply shoot the false, wicked concoction of himself and be done with him.

At that particular moment, he felt relatively normal- as normal goes. His limbs seemed to be operating in their usual strength, and his emotional levels were at a healthy level of concern, adrenaline, and basically just “wing-it” type of strategy. But whenever Bane had arrived previous times, he became laughably the most weak and powerless that he’d ever been. As soon as the uncut voice of his mirror image spoke, he was useless. Entirely useless, and Arthur couldn’t see that. Then again, he’d seen and done a lot of things with Arthur that he was sure neither of them ever thought would happen as long as they lived.

“Why is he just standing outside the door?” Arthur whispered in his ear, still, despite the moment, managing to sound ravishing- enough to send shivers, and not ones of fear, down his spine.

He licked his lips and leaned in to reply with a vague “no idea,” but was cut off by Bane’s distinctive voice, which came sharply through the room, seeping between the cracks of the door.

“Perhaps he’s wondering why someone would shoot a man, before throwing himself out of a dream?”

They both exchanged glances. Eames once again stepped in front of Arthur.

“Bane,” He began, as politely as he could. “Please stay out of my head.”

“I believe you should be the one doing that. You should stay out of mine.”

Exasperated, but still trying for maybe a bit of decency and sanity in all this, he said, “No, that’s not how this works- you can’t just waltz in and take over- “

He heard a click, and sharply looked to his right. A gun fired, and Arthur lay dead on the floor, eyes wide and blood pouring like a scarlet flower blossoming around his head. He felt his stomach churning in disgust as a distinctive sound, much like the noise one hears when unplugging a bathtub drain, came from the gaping bullet wound draining from Arthur’s pretty head.

At least it was a dream. But he couldn’t find his totem, and suddenly he felt unsure. He groped for his poker chip in his pockets somewhere, but couldn’t find it, and felt his disturbance rise.

Appalled, Eames watched in numb disconnection as the blood began staining the point man’s crisp white shirt and darkened his black jacket and grey vest. However, the blood did match his red tie, which was certainly convenient, yes? Somewhere in the background, Bane was pushing open the door and stepping over to him, but it was no matter. Eames was falling down, into the dead embrace of Arthur or to the relentless grip of himself- he didn’t know where he ended up. But he did fall. Down, down, down, while the blood dripped, dripped, dripped. Just like his hands did, when Bane held him by his throat after he tried punching mercilessly, on repeat, against his mask.

Blood dripped. It seemed to always do that. It was interesting- intriguing, but for his part, he just wanted to know he was still dreaming.


	7. Chapter Two Double Continued: Eames' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has planned out his grave inscription.

            “Vomit in here.”

            Eames obeyed, hurling his insides up in rattling, nasty, spluttering coughs that dumped into the wastebasket fourteen separate times, to the point where he was unable to breathe, afterwards choking and coughing some more just to gather air into his lungs. He truthfully had no idea if it was because of the remaining hangover, the sight of Arthur dead, the compound he’d been overdosed on, or just pure fear in general, but the fact was, he was vomiting as he’d never vomited before, to the point where every single muscle in his body throbbed. When he finished, he clung to the wastebasket, head deep inside, nose wrinkling, drool and vomit dripping slowly from his gaping mouth. It was so vile he wasn’t sure he could lift his head and force himself to swallow it, but he was too scared of vomiting again to let go of the metal container for long enough to wipe his mouth on his hand, and even that tweaked him out a bit.

            Arthur knelt down on the floor beside him, examining his face skeptically. “Better?”

            He nodded, not really believing his own mouth as it answered him. “Better.”

            “Don’t move.” The dark brunette instructed firmly. “Yusuf should be coming: I kicked myself out of the dream so I could kick you out, too, once I woke up. You were being particularly hard to wake, which resulted in me tipping you out of your chair and your vomiting a lot worse than if you just woke up easily and without the stomach flip… so, optimistically, everyone was bound to hear your racket and should be coming here now.”

            He nodded again, keeping his head lowered obediently and his jaw still hanging. He removed one hand from the basket and tremblingly reached for his pant pocket, relieved to find his poker chip, assuring him of reality. Though reality wasn’t altogether much of an improvement, when he really thought about it, it had more potential to be better than the inside of his head did.

            Arthur was still looking at him. He stared back, giving his best, careless, “What do you want from me?” sort of a face. Even though he felt most of his remaining dignity was gone with his unfortunate position. As though reading his mind, which wouldn’t be shocking, the point man glanced down at his crotch and decided to be snarky and snippy in return and add insult upon insult to injury.

            “I’m glad to see you didn’t wet yourself.” He commented.

            Frowning, he replied uncertainly, “Is this a thing, by any chance? Me pissing my pants?”

            Arthur looked disgusted and he felt slightly proud of himself. “Not even close. Yusuf told me right after we dropped you that you were highly reactive to basically every test run he’s done, and I got all the details, unfortunately.”

             “On the bright side,” he mumbled, “You clearly haven’t heard the worst of it yet, because you’d be significantly more… never mind.”

            “It does not get worse than that.” He flatly denied.

            Eames quirked his lips weakly, replying, “Oh, yes it does.”

            A funny humming noise came from Arthur, and he raised his eyebrows back.

            “Love, we were just being a bit romantic earlier, please let’s not _completely_ destroy whatever chance with you I have left?” He spit some more nastiness into the basket.

            “What do you mean?” The point man asked, looking a bit bewildered.

            To that, all he could do was suggestively move his eyes down to gesture at himself, once again in an awkwardly low position, and give a hopeless shrug.

Yusuf walked into the room just then, taking in the scene before him and visibly noting the awkward and unfortunate nature of it all. His shoulders sagged. “Eames…”

“Hullo,” He greeted back, using his free hand to wave up at him.

“You look horrible.” The chemist wrinkled his nose at the stench and sight of stomach acid.

He rolled his eyes and asked himself what was really new about that. Nothing was, and he conclusively sighed in resignation, slumping, and lowering his head further forward into the wastebasket of shame. He even pitied himself at that point. In fact, he already laid out his final words to be etched on his gravestone.

_Here lies Eames, unaccomplished, weak, and dead by regurgitating his insides one too many times and inhaling the deathly fumes for too long afterwards. Also dead by Arthur’s death glare of supreme, ultimate, and entirely absolute death- and additionally by the mind-blowing kiss that came too soon and went too fast. He apologizes to all nearby for the mess. And the smell. He requests lavender and roses at his grave, whenever a passerby can manage to spare it, and wishes them happier lives than he was ever able to have. Also dead by self-pity._

Alright, so maybe it was on the spot, and he would have make it possibly a touch shorter. He also needed to find someone who cared enough to even bother with a gravestone. One might assume, by this point, that Arthur would, but that assumption, Eames thought, was beyond far-fetched. He was so utterly confused about the whole messy business with the point man. Sure, he had been revived of last night’s memories, but he was more confused than ever at the unusual idea of… intimacy.

Especially considering his subconscious had gone rogue as a result of _mind-tampering_ kidnappers. A few days had really brought his already broken world crashing down around him. Firstly, Eames had gotten himself abducted, _then_ he was found right after it, by Dom, while he was still high as a kite, _then_ interrogated by Dom and Arthur, _then_ kissed by Arthur, _then_ drunk, _then_ invaded by Bane, a creation of himself in his head thanks to the torturous procedures of his captors, _then_ hung over, _then_ not remembering being kissed by Arthur because he had gotten drunk in the first place, _then_ attacked by Bane again in his dream, _then_ Arthur was there and saw it all, _then_ Arthur kissed him again, _then_ he remembered it had already happened the night previous, _then_ he woke up, _then_ he had an immediate reaction of rejection to the untested drug, and _then_ he lay in ruins to try and absorb it all.

Rough week. From Tuesday till Friday all this had happened, and somehow, he’d become painfully aware of what an absolute pile of-

“No, no, _NO- in the wastebasket- in there- the wastebasket, EAMES- “_ Arthur hissed, grabbing him by the hair and shoving his head back where it belonged.

He made a horrible spluttering noise, and out forced more mortification.

A truly beautiful finishing touch.

“Erm…” He tried smiling again at his own bad luck and terrible misfortune. “I don’t feel- erm… I’m feeling really sick…”

Arthur scowled, letting go of his head, which felt like a few hairs had been yanked out in the quickness of the moment. “Of course, you do.”

The chemist intervened at that point, helpfully, with an “I can go get something for it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Arthur’s face was impassive, and he then grabbed Eames by the scruff of his shirt and guided him upright- in an aggressively careful way. “I’m working from the hotel for the rest of the day. Mr. Eames will be accompanying me.”

He lifted his head from the contents of the wastebasket, startled. But he was being dragged very determinedly, so Eames just shot an apologetic look to Yusuf and shrugged with one arm, going along with his vomit bucket and straight out the front door.

“Awful lot of princess-carrying about these past few days, don’t you think, pet?” He murmured in Arthur’s ear, feeling his mouth twist into a crooked grin.

Brown eyes remained cool, the sharp face remained taut, the voice remained even, but the words were quite amusing to Eames, personally. “And why am I _not_ surprised?” Arthur breathed back, pushing outside with one half of his body, still most adamantly gripping him.

He replied automatically- for the sake of his shirt, and probably his life- agreeably letting himself be manhandled to the vehicle and giving the best possible answer he could muster. “Because I am pathetic, illogical, reckless, lacking in intelligence, and prone to having the worst possible luck. And on top of it all, you are always left to deal with the whole rescuing business, and I am very remorseful about being such an incompetent human being.”

Arthur stared at him. “Your sarcasm will be the breaking of my sanity.”

He stared back, seriously. “I wasn’t being sarcastic, funny enough.”

Eames was constantly reminded of his irritating nature by Arthur himself, really. So, no. That apology should have been exactly what it was. Even if he was being sarcastic, which he wasn’t, everyone else thought it most of the time. He didn’t mind it, generally.

“I know, Mr. Eames, but your loss of dignity is making you painfully honest and I’m trying to spare you from making any additional mistakes.”

Interesting observation. No comment. He looked down at the little steel container with the black rubbish bag in it and rhythmically tapped his fingertips against it. Having a bucket in front of him that smelled vile while in a vehicle no one could escape was really… not pleasant. He didn’t like jinxing himself, but there was no way it could get any worse than that. Especially considering his gracious chauffeur was Arthur.

The man in question slipped into the driver’s seat, pulling on his seatbelt, and shooting the rubbish tin a dirty look while doing so. Eames kept his face straight, so as to prevent the act of blushing, but the point man didn’t appear to be disgusted by him. In fact, he even smiled enough to flash those charming dimples Eames was so fond of. He loved Arthur’s dimples, but they never winked in his direction. Until right then.

“I assume you want to talk now, right?” Arthur asked, an unreal expression similar to- dare he say- fondness, softly etched into his dashing face.

He chewed on his lip- there was no toothpick nearby, so it was the next best thing. Although, he used to only chew on his lip and that led to quite a lot of chap stick and some major punctures that managed to bleed. That’s when he got hooked on toothpicks. During a game of poker somewhere in Verona, the man across him noticed his habit, and flicked a toothpick across the table at him with an assuring thumb up. He’d never gone back to his lip after that, which was convenient, as people tended to mark his lips as one of his stronger features. Personally, he felt they were entirely too feminine, pink, and plush for the rest of his face, but naïve little Ariadne had once rebuked him for it, and henceforth proceeded to go into a rather long-winded expository regarding the matter of his lips, and how she’d even shown a university friend a picture of him one time, and her friend had asked if Eames was single. Exactly, yes, truly. Terribly awkward. After that interesting scenario, Cobb made quick work of approaching Ariadne to discuss a certain shortcut in the maze she had just designed, and Eames submerged himself into the dream world to “think.” Normally he was a bit of a sucker for compliments, but that was not something he wished to repeat anytime soon. As in… ever.

“Eames.”

He snapped himself back into the conversation as quickly as he’d diverted it on a train of pointless nothings in an attempt to distract his mind a bit. The first words he could think of came flying out of his mouth, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you seriously considering having a relationship with me?”

An eyebrow went up calmly. “Do you want to?”

He felt his mouth open, heart leaping in his chest to just say “Obviously, darling- haven’t I given it away already?” Yet, all he could force out of his mouth was a stammering “Erm… I- well, do you?”

Arthur kept his gaze on the road, but his knuckles whitened visibly on the steering wheel. “I’m not doing anything if I’m just another mark, Mr. Eames.” His voice was quiet.

He felt injustice swell in his chest. “Thought we covered this already, didn’t we?”

Arthur’s brows lowered, and he shook his head.

“I do my _job_ , Arthur.” He enunciated each word clear as bloody day, and all he had to death grip was the vomit basket, so he proceeded to do so, just to have something to exert anger out on. “If I were in a relationship, the boundaries would also change considerably. Firstly, no taking my pants off just for a job. Second, kissing would have to be a last-minute resort, and the most I would ever do in or out of dreams would be some light flirting to infiltrate the structure, and I wouldn’t even mind a break from having to do that. The parameters are an entirely different field when one is committed.”

 “You have surprisingly decent morals for a con-man.” Arthur coolly commended.

Eames wasn’t entirely sure if he was flattered, insulted, or both.

“That still doesn’t answer my question, though,” He continued. “Do you think you’re willing to commit to something like that- in our line of work, with our risks, with everything that composes us- do you think you could do a relationship? And would you even want to have one at all? Or would being tied to another person be too much for you?”

More guilt than he ought to have began yanking at his heartstrings, because although he was never not loyal to the team, he always set himself… apart. A bit of a lone wolf in some strange way. Not sleazy, but also not really ever on anyone’s side. Never seriously invested. He at least liked to think that before Bane proved him wrong and demonstrated how weak and emotional he was. Were they the same thing? Or was that thinking like Bane- sorry, him? Him who was Bane?

“If you really do, I have a few things I’d want you to agree to. Do you know what they are?”

He grinned. “Keep my trousers to myself, no lying to you, be spectacular in bed, and always be sure to give you a good morning kiss and a cup of disgusting black coffee.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at him. “You’re missing some. No running off without telling me, no taking jobs I haven’t safety checked, and first and foremost, above everything else, you have to talk to me. None of this secretive, mind implosion crap you’re pulling.”

Apparently besides what he’d just been thinking, it was manageable. All besides the one tiny detail- the most crucial detail, evidently. Something was going on in his head, whether he was incepted or just screwed around with, he hadn’t the faintest, but something was definitely, certainly, without a shadow of a doubt- _wrong_. And out of the blue, right after he’d been… you know… kidnapped and left feeling traumatized and empty all at once, Arthur Emotionless requests to know every inch of it and have a romantic, _communicative_ relationship with him.

 _Au revoir,_ Bane.

If he was to be spouting painfully angsty and truthful things, might as well give it a shot.

The stars knew he wanted it more than anything, anyhow.

“I promise, darling.”


	8. Chapter Three: Arthur's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment of bliss. Calm before the storm? Yes. But don't worry, it ends like this, too. Be warned, there is something ahead just about porn in this chapter.

** Chapter Three: Arthur’s Perspective **

****

“Are you sure about this?”

They’d gotten back to Arthur’s hotel room that was really more of a micro apartment, and he’d given Eames the opportunity to brush his teeth and rinse out his mouth, along with taking a very long, hot shower that steamed up the entire place and made him bang loudly on the shower door to tell the forger irritably to hurry up. Eames had then come out with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist, skin glistening, wet hair all spiked up from rubbing it with his towel, and with a very relaxed air about him. It was the first time he’d seen him shirtless, besides in his dreams, and somehow, even his imagination hadn’t overestimated the beauty. If anything, he’d underestimated him. His tattoos were all on his chest, he had one across his side, one on his back, and of course, the ones down his arms, some of them prettier than others, but all of them looking like they belonged there. Arthur had by no means doubted that Eames was in shape, but he hadn’t exactly expected him to have such a tight abdomen, or such a lovely smattering of fine, soft hair across his defined chest. One thing led to another after that.

Neither of them was clothed anymore, and Arthur was in the process of lowering Eames to the bed, but broke their kiss, looking intently into his eyes. Eames needed to want it, and he had to make sure he was giving him the proper time to think about it. It was a first time with him for a lot of things. Relationship, sex with Arthur, and sex not for the purpose of sex, but of more than that. Besides, he still didn’t know exactly what had happened from Tuesday to Thursday- he knew Eames hadn’t told him everything that had happened, and he knew he couldn’t ask it from him just yet, but he did need to know that Eames would be alright with all of it.

Crooked teeth smiled up at him, lopsided and genuine- a rare grin. “Entirely positive.”

He nodded, grabbing the lube- provided by the hotel, oddly enough- but hesitating once again. “I don’t mind if you’re not ready, I know we did _just_ \- “

Eames laughed and propped himself up on his elbows, reaching up a large hand to cup his cheek. It was warm, broad, calloused, but smooth- and that was how he’d always pictured it to be. “Arthur, if anything, I should be asking you if you’re ready for this. You seem nervous, darling.”

He couldn’t help the slight smile he felt creeping onto his face at his laugh and shrugged apologetically in return. “I don’t want to rush you into anything. This… it’s… this is really important.”

Eames laid down fully on the white sheets, hands moving from his face to smooth his sides. His face had gone no less happy, but it fell more serious. “I’m sure.”

He felt better- he felt assured- and so he proceeded to put some lube into his hands, and work Eames’ (perfectly large, rather thick) cock teasingly, until he was writhing and gripping the sheets with both hands, gasping underneath him and biting those lips in clear attempts not to make undignified noises.

His erection was flushed and dripping with pre-come by the time he’d taken the lube and worked him open, sliding one finger in at a time and pumping in and out until he’d gotten to four fingers and brushed against his prostate once, at which Eames did yelp and let out a string of surprised curses mixed with Arthur’s name every few words or so.

And then he penetrated him. He pushed himself slowly in, barely able to take the sensation of Eames, tight and warm, contracting around him as he went deeper, all the way until he was pressed against the forger’s thighs. He waited, breathing heavily for a few seconds to get used to the sensation, but then Eames moaned loudly and began desperately trying to gain some friction by rotating his hips in uncoordinated movements, so he gathered himself and began thrusting, slowly and gently at first so he could find a steady rhythm.

“Arthur- faster, please-“ Eames begged, voice urgent.

“Yeah,” He managed to say, unable to give a better response, and picked up his pace.

Eames groaned, head falling back as Arthur continued to thrust into him. He was starting to get close, trying to maintain control of himself and keep his movements stable, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as he began to near climax. Eames seemed to be feeling the same way, now making noises that probably should have been muffled with something, because they were loud and sinful, hoarse, and breathless.

He only breathed one word, “Coming,” before Eames did, over his chest and stomach, clenching and tightening enough to send him over the edge too, so that he was coming inside him, crying out and collapsing against him, sanitary having become irrelevant.

They’d both just shower again. Maybe together. Arthur put his fingers over Eames’ lips, tracing them and pressing softly into the pillow-like rosiness. Lazily in reply, Eames parted his mouth and sucked on the tips of his fingers, almost as if lulling himself to sleep, but then he enclosed his arms around him, and rolled onto his side to kiss him with his mouth, gently, drowsily. Arthur kissed him back, reaching his hand around to trace the deep divot of Eames’s spine, and run his fingers down it.

“Darling, you’re brilliant.” Eames mumbled against his mouth.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He said back, pleased when he felt Eames’ mouth smirk slightly.

“I do try.” He sighed. “I believe I revoke you of your title. Mostly.”

He opened his eyes, looking at Eames curiously. Eames opened only one eye, though it still managed to glint playfully. “What title is that, Mr. Eames?” He asked.

“Stick in the mud.” He shrugged shamelessly. “Not completely revoked, obviously, because you’re still the most obsessive compulsive, overly organized and perfect point man I know of, but you’re actually… quite lovely. A lot more sensitive and caring than I gave you credit for.”

He felt his cheeks burn. “I’m blaming you completely, I hope you know.”

An eyebrow slid slowly up.

Arthur rolled his eyes for the millionth time, even though he wasn’t actually annoyed. “You run around all the time with your stupid shirts and your ridiculous pet names, batting your eyelashes and all that… I think you’ve officially ruined me. Congratulations.”

Eames opened both eyes, blinking slowly at him. “I feel congratulated. You don’t seem too bothered, though, so I see no problem regarding my actions.”

“Cocky.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Arthur shoved him in the chest, rolling away from him in disgust. “Pervert, you know what I mean.”

Eames sat up, scratching his messy, soft hair with one hand, and squinting in a confused manner. “Really? Do I?” He waited a few moments, as if he was thinking about it, but then shook his head. “Yeah, no- I don’t.”

He sat up, too, trying very much not to grin like a maniac, but it was very hard to restrain himself when he felt so amazingly content. So instead, he clipped Eames on the back of his head with the heel of his palm- not too hard, but enough to make him jump.

“Pathetic.” He drawled, pleased when he earned a scowl.

Eames looked down at himself, at his chest, where come was beginning to dry against his skin. “Shame, I just showered.” He complained, almost whining.

Arthur shrugged. “I need one now, too.”

The forger tilted his head at him, contemplative, and asked uncertainly, “Suggestive?”

“You probably used up most of the hot water the first time you showered, so I’m going first unless you want to join me.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ve never fancied an icicle attack in the shower.”

A loud vibrating sound suddenly started, and Arthur quickly got off the bed, recognizing the vibrations to be an incoming call from Dom Cobb. He grabbed up his pants off the floor, shoving his hands into the pocket and pulling out his phone to answer it before tossing his pants back onto the floor again. ( _Trousers,_ Eames’ voice whispered.) He put the phone ( _mobile_ ) on speaker.

“Dom?” He greeted promptly, though it felt a bit strange considering he and Eames were both just naked together after having sex and got interrupted in a conversation about showering together.

“Hey, Arthur. Heard about Eames and that compound- how is he?”

Arthur glanced over at Eames, who looked like he was thinking of some very inappropriate things to say. “Um…” He trailed off as a very not good comment was whispered in the background, but hastily started again. “Good. He’s better- not puking up his insides anymore. I just took him back to my place again, so we could work there, I had some files to go over about the mark, anyway.”

“I understand, that’s fine.” Cobb said, genuinely. “Did you still want to do drinks, tonight? And did you talk to him at all? If you don’t by tonight, I might just do it for you.”

Eames looked very surprised. “Talk to me?” He mouthed to Arthur, who just held up a finger to wait- for the time being.

“I’ll get him to come, and yes, I’ll make sure he’s nothing past tipsy by the time we’re done.” There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Dom was clearly waiting for him to say something. He held his breath. “And yes, I did.”

 _“Thank you.”_ Cobb practically shouted, and Eames got off the bed to tap Arthur on the shoulder, still looking very concerned. Cobb continued. “And? What did he say?”

He covered the half of his face that was visible to Eames and peered through his fingers at his phone screen, virtually in agony. “I got him to remember. I went with him using a normal version of the compound and doing the… the same thing in his subconscious was enough to trigger the memory of Thursday, so… yeah, then we talked about it a little in the dream, and then more after we left the building.”

Realization dawned on Eames’ face, but he still looked just as stunned. Arthur looked at him again, and past being stunned that Dom knew somehow, he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He nodded at Eames questioningly, to which he got a minute nod back. Eames looked grateful that the mentioning of Bane was left out, but it did serve to make Arthur start thinking about it again. The memory of how nervous he seemed, and the jumbled, useless explanation Eames offered only served to confuse him more. He brought himself back to the conversation, where he was about to drop news even he didn’t believe yet. Was he comfortable? What would Dom Cobb think of it? How long would Eames be content to be fawned over- was he even alright?

“He… Eames and I… well, we- um. We talked, and it seems we both are on the same page now, so… well… we- um. We’re in… um…”

“Bloody hell!” Eames growled, snatching the phone from him, and putting his mouth very close to the speaker, shouting into the phone at Dom and enunciating each word deliberately. “We’re in a relationship now, Dom. That’s what he’s trying to say- a relationship.”

Eames handed the phone back to Arthur and mimicked him by rolling his eyes. “Darling, all those ‘ums’ were never going to get it out- it was driving me mad.”

“Eames?” Dom asked, and Arthur could hear him smiling on the other end, eyes probably squinting up, too.

“Hello.” Eames greeted, much more politely.

Arthur could feel himself blushing furiously and cleared his throat to ensure he sounded normal when he talked. “That was Eames, yeah. What he said is accurate.”

A snort came through, still recognizable through the crackling of the phone. “Well, congratulations, it’s only been around seven years of waiting.”

He frowned. “Think maybe you’re exaggerating things a little?”

“No.” Cobb said simply. “And Eames, by the way-?”

Eames, who had been rubbing his evidently cold arms, looked up as sharply as though Dom had walked into the room and seen him in his compromising, naked position, lips pursed tightly as he made a noise of, “Hm?”

“I’m proud of you.”

“I haven’t done anything particularly noteworthy, but I appreciate your everlasting support, _Dad_.”

“You have.” Dom’s voice said. “And just because I’ve got kids doesn’t mean you can use that name on me. Ever. Never repeat it, actually.”

Eames winked and clicked his tongue, probably more for his own personal satisfaction, Arthur would think, considering Dom couldn’t see it. “Absolutely. Not a problem.”

“Great.” Dom laughed again. “See you two soon. Arthur, no, I won’t tell everyone. Eames, no I won’t dream about it. Meet us at the bar two blocks left of the work place in half an hour. Alright? Bye.”

The line hung up. Arthur grabbed Eames by the shoulder and steered him straight to the bathroom. “And now we’re showering, because you are not going with semen all over you.”

“Why not?” Eames blinked, face entirely serious.

He didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but the forger grinned impishly anyway.


	9. Chapter Three Continued: Dom's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinks and bickering... Ariadne is always so nosy. Adorable. But nosy.

** Chapter Three Continued: Dom’s Perspective **

****

            “We still need to talk about Eames being kidnapped. I don’t think he should be allowed to continue the job until we know what happened to him and what’s going on down there- he was just released yesterday, and we know nothing.” Ariadne whispered across the table, face pouting and angry.

Yusuf shrugged at her. “Eames is one of the toughest blokes I’ve met. He’d spit right on your face and smile even if his spit was mostly blood- heard that’s really happened. And once, he outsmarted his kidnappers by being sarcastic the whole time he was getting beaten to a pulp. They got so fed up with his stubbornness they let him go.”

Dom looked at Ariadne for her reaction, but he didn’t think she looked impressed. “So, he goaded them into wanting to just kill him because he’s arrogant.”

Yusuf laughed. “No, it’s a fair fifty-fifty. He’s either dead or set free, and I don’t think he cares about dying very much, so either way he won.”

Ariadne, though young, wasn’t afraid to think. Dom admired it, but she was too nosy. Much too nosy. “Yeah, but that’s just his _body_ getting damaged- so, what about his _mind_? That’s what’s important. He doesn’t seem like he’s physically been through any more than what’s expected by at least resisting being taken. But inside his head, things could be really, really bad. He barely spoke a word yesterday- when we actually did see him, and then today he’s gone most of the day- “

“I’m going to talk about it tonight, Ariadne- just don’t lose your head, alright?” He put a hand lightly over Ariadne’s wrist, intervening the rant before it looked suspicious. He subtly tipped his head towards the doorway, where Arthur was entering, taking in his surroundings cautiously, with Eames doing the same behind him, though with somewhat more of a quiet smirk playing on his face.

He wasn’t sure if either of them would say anything about their “together” status, or if his point man Arthur had gotten the forger to open up and talk about his own. Mental status, that is. Dom had an idea to propose, so maybe the responses he got would tell him enough, for the moment. It would have to remain to be seen.

“I’m sorry you’re already here.” Arthur nodded, face impassive as ever as he shook the hands of Yusuf, Ariadne, and him. He noticed Ariadne slightly blush and smile a bit, but it was ignored or unnoticed by all parties. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting?”

“Easy.” Eames kept his hands in his pockets but spared some momentary eye contact with all of them and confirmed, “Arthur, not to worry- they’ve just sat down no more than five minutes ago.”

Dom couldn’t help staring at him. It was, in fact, around four minutes ago that they’d found spots and sat down. “Eames, how exactly-?”

“Easy.” The Brit said again.

“Show-off.” Yusuf mumbled, almost unintelligibly into his hands.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes- I’m just noticing normal, irrelevant things.” Eames shook his head earnestly.

Dom watched as the chemist fixed the forger with a very direct gaze, black eyes intensely on him. Yusuf leaned forward. “Aren’t you?”

Eames did the thing he did Thursday morning, after he found him, and Eames had recovered enough from the drugs to communicate sanely. He made that overly convincing face of obliviousness. “When have I ever been intelligent enough to fall under the great detective’s range?”

Yusuf’s round face smiled. “James Bond, then.”

Eames cringed away. “Stars, no. Much prefer my own fashion taste.”

Yusuf did appear to be about to say something back, but apparently, he took too long because Ariadne leaned across the table too, to look at Eames and Arthur, standing right over Dom. He had to crane his neck upwards very far to look at them, while the chemist and architect on the other side of the table could see them much more comfortably. Eventually, he just turned his chair around, so he could fully observe the conversation.

“Are you okay, Eames?” She asked- without any hint of subtlety.

The reply was lightning sharp and honey sweet- and if she’d expected him to trip up, he certainly didn’t fall for it- he skipped happily around the trap and laughed at the ease once it was behind him.

“Splendid, dearest, never once been better.”

Arthur shot him a meaningful look from the corner of his eye. He squinted back his usual squint, aware that Eames was also in clear range of noticing any secret signals, so he kept his expression neutral- for him.

Fair faced, flushed cheeked Ariadne had the most plainly skeptical and apprehensive face on, though, brows high on her forehead. “You were vomiting earlier.”

“Well, I’m certainly not now.” Eames tested back.

Ariadne’s mouth dropped. “You’ve just been held hostage.”

“Tuesday to Thursday. Hardly counts.” Eames shook his head again.

She spoke more quietly. “They probably tortured you.”

“I’m hardly bruised.” The forger held out his arms to prove it, but Dom could see some of the wounds he himself had cleaned up, showing from what wasn’t covered by his faded red t-shirt. He’d gone back to inspect the trap, riskily tapping at it.

Ariadne raised her brows higher still. “They could have tortured other things.”

“I’m also not in need of a straightjacket.” Eames quirked his lips dangerously.

She began fiddling with her bandana, tied oddly around her neck in whatever fashion it was supposed to be, and looked slightly annoyed. “They had to have done something to you in there.”

“Not particularly.” He too seemed on edge, now.

“And it was definitely messing with your head.”

And there it was. The trap snapped shut around him. Dom sighed, running a hand through his own dirty blonde hair as that statement hung heavy. There was an impossibly long pause, and he decided the best thing to do was just to look straight down at his hands. When Eames next spoke, his voice was something akin to ice crushing and splintering excruciatingly- the sound ice made when water poured over it- and the ice cracked.

“You are terribly nosy, aren’t you?”

Ariadne simply kept going. “Why else would they keep you for three days and then just let you go?”

“Good Samaritan.” Eames offered, scratching the back of his head.

She made a small, angry noise. “They drugged you senseless- Cobb said so!”

Eames grimaced instead. “Bad Samaritan.”

Ariadne’s mouth furiously opened to say more, but he’d had enough at that point.

“That’s enough, Ariadne.” He said it quietly but made sure the authoritative note was still present in his voice when he spoke. “Leave him alone now.”

She immediately fell silent. The two standing both pulled out chairs and sat down, Eames in between him and Arthur, and Arthur between Eames and Ariadne. Dom pitied Ariadne, he pitied Eames, and he even pitied Arthur- though he wasn’t directly involved in the bickering, he was very much involved just in general.

Eames’ eyes were open just a little too wide, precariously calm behind a white fire that seared too hotly and too clearly to be ignored. He looked next to him, at Eames. He’d have to proceed with extreme caution from then on out, but he still needed to ask some imperative enquiries regardless of what might be more comfortable.

“Eames, now I’m not going to pry, but I need to know just one or two things, alright?” He kept his voice calm, reassuring.

Eames dipped his head at him to go on.

“Do you think they’ll try to find you again?” He asked. “They know now where we’re working, and they know how to find you- and any of us, really. Now, I trust you, Eames. If you think they, whoever they are, are an immediate threat, Saito can relocate us to a different site without a problem.”

Arthur huffed, cutting in. “I’m sure he can, he’s got plenty of money and lately it seems we’ve been helping him get even more.”

He felt himself smile slightly. “Right, exactly- so Saito’s got us covered… what are you thinking, Eames?”

Eames shifted more contentedly in his chair, hands coming to rest on his stomach. “Considering my stay was brief and mild, along with the fact that I was let go- we most likely are safe- “

Arthur shook his head and interrupted Eames, amazing him when Eames listened and fell quiet. “We’ve also got to think about the fact that they went to great lengths to find out where you are at all times- if they were bored or uninterested they probably would have killed you or left you somewhere random- not the front steps.”

It made sense, Dom thought. Everyone, even Eames, nodded in agreement. “Okay,” He said, glad to be getting somewhere. “Where is everyone feeling like travelling?”

“Where is Bruce Wayne?” Eames countered. “May as well be closest to him so we don’t need any extra fly-outs and such- I was already needing to observe his behavior a bit more in person, anyhow. If we can have easy access, this job could be a lot quicker.”

He could see his point, but it was risky. He held up a hand to him. “He’s in New York, but we’ve got to remember that Saito has already had two instances of teams coming in and failing at the job. We’re continuing the past two dreams, trying to be better than them, but still along the same plot- the same story- because with all that memory, that’s all that will work now that his subconscious has been so disrupted by it. This “Batman” figure has two previous dreams located in an imaginary city called Gotham. We have to work off of this idea and shape into the vision that Saito really wants- you do understand.”

Eames frowned. “Your point?”

He hastily went on. “My point being that Wayne’s people are already on the lookout for a small group like us to try and meddle with his mind again, so we’d have to move very carefully. It would go from here in Italy having a small group of kidnappers trying to follow us to New York: a powerful person with an army of agents at his fingertips- this is potentially top-secret knowledge being exposed to the general public. Mr. Wayne would not hesitate to pin down Saito and let the entire world know about dreamshare, what PASIV’s are, what we do- extraction and now inception- everything could be exposed and every allied government around the globe would be hunting us down to hold us responsible.”

Yusuf winced. “That’s a lot of risks.”

“That’s a lot of risks.” He repeated grimly, all of them straightening to look at the server who was walking towards them.

“Good evening, can I get started on any drinks?” She asked in Italian, smiling around white teeth.

He went first, ordering so that anyone who didn’t speak any of the language would know to follow suit and order from the menu- they did alright, and he only spoke a bit himself, but when it got to Eames, he began talking in perfectly fluent Italian, ordering his drink and then some. The waitress smiled and laughed and jotted down more notes before waving them goodbye and hurrying away to start on their orders.

Arthur snorted. “What the hell was all that, Eames?”

Eames shrugged. “Excluding you, I am the more capable of language speaking here, and so, to ensure no awkward stumbles, I went ahead and ordered us a few appetizers- is everyone pleased with calamari and some bread and butter? I thought that would be mild enough for the general crowd.”

Dom smiled. “Sounds fine to me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re not the only one who eats exotic, here, Eames- of course it’s mild enough.”

Yusuf laughed. He took it as a yes, and so did Eames, apparently, because he grinned, too. Ariadne nodded and smiled politely but said nothing else. He thought she still looked put off by the argument with Eames and the fact that none of them were as bothered as her. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Eames, he just knew Arthur would now be handling him, and would probably tell him most things told him by Eames, anyway. Additionally, he respected Eames’ privacy- unlike Ariadne, and his last encounter of being invaded by her on the Fischer job was enough to make him immediately shield the forger from any of the architects’… well intentioned but poorly used prodding skills.

The waitress came back some time later, handing them all drinks and setting out their food with somewhat of a brighter expression than when she’d first come out to serve them. She left after exchanging a few friendly words with Eames and telling them all she’d be around to refill drinks whenever they asked. Dom thought he should direct attention back to the pressing matter of where exactly they’d be moving.

“Alright, New York.” He pressured. “How does everyone feel about it, first of all, and if no one thinks it’s worth the risk do we have any better ideas?”

Eames raised a hand. “I’m willing to take the risk- New York is my vote.”

Arthur held up his hand, too. “Eames’ opinion is irrelevant due to his complete lack of logical decision making and general tendency towards bad ideas, but I’m going to go with New York. We’d have a lot more chances to fully observe the mark- see his influence in the city, see how the cogs turn.”

He saw Eames turn to the point man, smarmily saying, “Perhaps not logical- but _strategic?_ I am indeed that- you seem to be forgetting it was me who came up with all the clever ideas on the Fischer job.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and only made a face of disbelief and _here we go again_. Eames rounded on him, instead. “Cobb.”

He ran a hand through his hair, restraining his laughter. “Yes, Mr. Eames.”

“Did I not come up with the root ideas- did I not create the whole “I will create something for myself and my father wants me to even though he doesn’t and really, he’s just a snobby prat-” was that not me?”

He shot a glance at Arthur, looking resigned over Eames’ shoulder, and nodded at him. “That you did.”

Eames looked very pleased with himself.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly- if one could ignore the slightly quieter little Ariadne, watching from her seat with an expression of thoughtfulness mixed with sulking accusation. For his part, Eames continued behaving just as he normally would- the lack of conduct and overall shock of the day previous evidently able to be hidden behind his mask again. The one word he kept repeating that morning, being executed before his eyes. A mask.

No one who got shot in the chest and survived simply walked away, perfectly fine, and healthy the next day. They suffered for months- even had permanent damage for the rest of their lives. Similarly, Eames wasn’t any better than what brief glimpse of truth he’d seen yesterday- and from what he’d seen, even without any specifics whatsoever, there was no way he would be for a much longer time than Eames cared to admit. He’d just cleaned up his game.

He and Arthur met eyes again in a strangely satisfying moment of identical thought.

When Yusuf had begun to hit his limit of what was buzzed and began down the realm of tipsy and mildly drunk, he’d dragged Eames down with him, slightly gigglier and grabbing him by the arm while Eames merely patted him politely and held out a hand to stop another drink of whiskey being poured down his throat. Hangover must have been getting to the forger if he was refusing to even get a little bit drunk, but it also could have been what happened the night before- what led to the hangover in the first place.

Maybe he was overanalyzing things, which wouldn’t be a first time.

But, Dom thought, as they all went their separate ways, there was nothing wrong with being cautious.


	10. Chapter Four: Eames' Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bane won't leave Eames alone. Or rather, Eames won't leave himself alone. He could have been incepted. He hated it. Having worst moments. But he couldn’t have wished to fall apart in better hands.

** Chapter Four: Eames’ Perspective **

 

He was staring at Arthur’s hotel ceiling, unable to sleep. Frankly, he didn’t want to. Not only had Ariadne pinched every last one of his already zinging nerves, on top of it, he was anxious about meeting Bane again. And perhaps he might’ve had more bravery if he was sleeping alone, where there was no one to see him writhe in the coils of a new nightmare- but he was sharing a bed with a warm body beside him and he knew that the point man was ever watchful. They’d retrieved what few belongings he had from his own hotel and moved them into Arthur’s hotel room… their hotel room, rather. He wasn’t quite used to the idea, especially given the circumstances. He’d never liked being babysat- looked after, cared for. Things like cuddling and relaxing evenings had never appealed to his senses- nothing romantic.

Alright, maybe that was a complete lie.

Maybe he did- so maybe he loved the idea, but he wasn’t keen on defenselessness. Exposure. And that often came with the package.

            He’d stopped dreaming naturally some time ago, which he didn’t find too bothersome normally, so he easily had gone on without it- if he wanted dreams, that’s what the PASIV and his job were for. Yet Bane had opened it all back up again. Whatever Bane was, it seemed to be as far away from normal and natural dreaming as he could possibly think of. He knew some involved in dreamshare would commit murder just to dream again. He wouldn’t- and especially if it was an oddly forced, unstoppable incubus. If Bane really got hold, he might start committing murder _because_ he was dreaming again.

Ah, the sheer and brilliant irony of it all.

The idea that he’d been incepted once again crept into his mind before he could block it out- dread clenching his stomach. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened to him- everything was such an awful haze of drugs and wakefulness and sleep and pain and dreams and fear- all he knew was what was haunting him. Unfortunately, he seemed to be haunting himself, and it was all he _could_ see.

Out of the blue, Arthur’s voice quietly spoke next to him, and when he looked, he could see the gleam of open eyes fixed on him. “I know you got that scar through your right eyebrow the same time you got the one on your jaw and the same time you lost function of the last finger on your right hand because a tendon was severed. It all happened when you got yourself kidnapped in Brazil three years ago and the day I found out was the day you escaped and thought no one knew it had happened. You didn’t say anything about it, but I knew.”

            Eames felt his brows climb upwards. Self-consciously, he glanced at his permanently curled pinky finger, scooting his hand closer to himself under the sheets. “Well, you’re still awake.”

            “Observational as ever, Eames.” Came the smooth riposte.

            At least the condescension never stopped, even with Arthur sharing a bed with him- even now that they’d entered the terrifying territory of a relationship. His mind jumped backwards to the first thing he’d said to announce his consciousness. “What did you say earlier?”

            Arthur snorted. “You heard me just fine, don’t play it stupid.”

            Really, at this rate, he was well on his way of losing his reputation as the best forger in the industry. He shifted under the covers, careful to keep his body thoroughly to himself. “I fail to see the relevance of such an abrupt statement, is all.”

“I notice everything.”

He really laughed- Arthur said it with such shameless certainty and such an unbridled lack of modesty it just couldn’t be helped.

“Darling, you can’t possibly _need_ me to confirm all this, can you?”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t, actually, and was starting to get worried Arthur might be overestimating him. For once, he was judging him for not understanding something he should rather than not understanding something he couldn’t even be expected to. Or was it the other way around? He didn’t know that either.

“I don’t, in fact.” He confessed.

There was an almost physical presence of annoyance coming from Arthur, one that made the previously warm covers cold and unpleasant. It made him yearn for contact and simultaneously want to cringe away from it as far as possible, ultimately rooting him to the spot in a sort of paralysis.

“My point is that whether or not we talk about it, I’ll know.”

“Erm…” He still didn’t know what he was meant to reply with. “Thank you for informing me so.”

There was a stretch of heightened irritation radiating off of Arthur, emanating in enormous waves for several seconds, and after which, his voice was much tighter. “My _other_ point is that it would be easier if we just talked about it together rather than me having to dig up all the impersonal dirty secrets and know what happened by my own means of finding out.”

“What- why I’ve got a hopelessly crooked pinky finger and a trendy slit through the end of my brow?”

“I already know why for those ones- my point _again,_ Eames.” Arthur sat up, even in the darkness managing to have an even darker scowl on. “I’m talking about this particular round of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Eames had suddenly changed his mind about his not sleeping problem: he could most definitely conk out right then and right there if it would stop the conversation from continuing.

He yawned an exaggerated yawn and happily curled into Arthur’s unyielding torso, pressing his face against his abdomen, and squeezing his ribs as hard as he could without cracking them or causing too much pain. In essence, he was snuggling him to be obnoxious and distracting. Not surprisingly, the cuddle concept had also rapidly lost its terror, for the time being much more welcoming than the idea of talking about that _particular round of trouble_.

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” Arthur seethed from above him, sounding slightly choked as he did so.

“Yeah, me too.” He said mildly, dragging the stiff form down again despite the many protests of it being important they discuss things, and assuring him not entirely truthfully that they could just talk about it in the morning once he’d gotten a nice shut-eye.

He slept without any delay after that- well, right after Arthur had finally settled down and quit his grumbling, and his breathing became deep and mellow once again.

He enjoyed one moment of satisfaction at Arthur’s lovely face before closing his eyes.

When Eames woke up the next day, he felt oddly groggy. He pried open his eyes and shoved his fists into them, rubbing hard to clear them from the lingering sleep. Light flickered and danced in his eyes, golden morning light that had a lovely sort of calm about it as it shone on the fluffy white duvet.

The morning was nice, but it was too nice. It was the sort of lovely morning that was so lovely he could sleep through it simply because of the fact that it was so lovely, if that made sense. He let his eyes slip closed again, feeling the corners of his mouth almost tugging upwards slightly. Yes, it sounded about right to him. He tightened himself, straightening every joint and muscle of his body so it stretched and cracked, then letting it all relax once more, into an even deeper comfort. His senses began to blur, and he started to drift off.

But then fingers were running through his hair. He instinctively struck in defense, bringing up his fists to attack, but he was blocked by the sheets and a set of legs keeping them down on either side of him. He was all at once aware of the fact that he was being held down by something- someone- and… it was just Arthur.

“Geez- Eames, don’t go psychotic on me.” Came the slightly startled voice of Arthur, whose hands had tightened almost painfully, tugging on his scalp enough to check him into snapping his arms back down.

_Oh, but you will. We will. Won’t we, Eames?_

Bane was clearly up, too, then. Fantastic.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” He heard himself mumble, dully noticing how drowsy he sounded. “Morning, Arthur.”

“And you say _my_ reflexes are bad.” The stroking of his hair resumed after he slid his hand down to faintly touch upon his cheek, amazing him once again at the tenderness peeking through the Arthur-ness he’d always known.

“They _are,_ ” He emphasized. “A drop of a pin and you’re bouncing up higher than Tigger- I swear you’re going to just spring yourself through the roof sometime.”

Arthur’s tone turned teasing. “On the subject of cartoon tigers, you’re easily the equivalent to Shere Khan- you just lash out on everything with your claws and teeth.”

He snorted. “Please, I’m more docile than a house cat.”

“Yeah, you’re even moodier than one, too.” A lighting fast retort.

He scowled, almost ready with a comeback, but Arthur started talking again before he could get in a word.

“It’s eleven am. Our flight leaves at two, so I thought- after last night- you should sleep in, even if I’m up already.” The point man’s tone shifted once more. Then, it was calculative, almost inquisitorial.

His first thought was: _Arthur’s stayed in bed with me this whole time?_ He expressed his second one vocally. “What do you mean after last night?”

The hair combing paused, he felt Arthur’s long fingers curl, rhythmically tap a few times, and then it picked up again. “You don’t remember it?”

Vaguely concerned, he answered, “Nothing particularly, no…”

A shadow fell over his eyes. He opened them to see warm brown irises examining him pensively.

“You woke up in the middle of the night again. I ended up giving you some fairly heavy sleeping aids to make you relax, so if you’re wondering about the tiredness…”

“Right, yeah- that’ll do it.” He blinked a few times, thinking.

The last time he woke up, it had been because he was dreaming- on his own for the first time, but only because of the presence of-

Arthur got there before he did. “And as to what you did, it was something along the lines of a seizure or a fit- obviously not normal behavior- and you were talking, too. This was all in your sleep, by the way, and when I finally got you awake, you were really quiet, shaky… every movement made you jump. I asked if you wanted to talk about it and you still weren’t answering me, which was confirmation enough that it was Bane again, whoever that is. But when I held out the pills you took them and went right back to sleep.”

He didn’t know how to feel about it because he was feeling a considerable number of things. First off, it was awful that Arthur had to deal with him, above all else, but secondly- it was strange that he remembered absolutely none of it. Nothing about any of that. He remembered shutting down Arthur’s conversation attempt by playing tired, ending up being legitimately tired and falling asleep, and then he woke up being held by him the next morning.

He wondered if Arthur had gotten in bed first and then gently guided him into his arms, spreading his legs around his shoulders to accommodate for his body.

Old souls, as Dom Cobb always said about he and Mal. He said that’s how they had been, and that’s what he felt like, too. About him and Arthur. They were old souls so easily and so fast- the chemistry all flowed naturally, even when he was in his lowest, worst moments, it was still alright. He hated it. Having worst moments. But he couldn’t have wished to fall apart in better hands.

If only he could say that to him without sounding like he was going even more insane.

“Arthur,” He cleared his throat. “What was I saying whilst asleep?”

He got a monotonous list in reply, shielded from all possible emotions associated with the words that made him shudder. “Bane. Mask. Arthur. Please. Stop. Forgive me. Lies. No. Help me.”

“That’s a bit morbid, don’t you think?” He tried for a small joke and got nothing back.

Arthur stopped touching his hair altogether. “Eames, are you sure you’re safe to do this job?”

“Completely.” He replied automatically.

“And what about after?”

He tilted his head back as far as he could into Arthur’s lap, giving his best exasperated look up to him.

“I know you and Ariadne have had a little fling, but if you really liked the kiss that much then please don’t start channeling her energy onto me- I do not need any more of that, thank you.”

Arthur scowled down at him. “I am _not_ like her, and don’t even bother going there. I’ve told you so many times- I was _trying_ to distract the projections- _she_ was the one who thought I was-”

“Relax, darling.” He grinned, repositioning himself a bit. “I’m only badgering you again.”

“And you’re subconsciously distracting me from the subject, Eames- let’s talk.” Arthur’s voice took on a note he was sure he hadn’t heard before- it was near pleading, but not quite there. Hands once again were at his hair, still so soothingly caressing his head.

“Yes, Arthur.” He said somewhat derisively, eyes automatically fluttering shut every time those hands began moving through his hair, vaguely concerning him he might have developed a kink.

“How are you planning on getting rid of him?” The point man immediately dived in with the hardest question he could think of- how very, very typical of him.

“I… I have absolutely no idea.” Then, realizing that sounded horribly despairing, he added, “But I’m working on that- dunno why I wouldn’t remember the dream I had last night because I really thought the point of all this was to torment me with bad dreams, but I’m figuring it all out.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Arthur oozed sarcasm. “That would explain the violent seizing in your sleep.”

“Try to remember it’s Saturday, darling, and I was only tossed back out into the rain Thursday morning after being taken Monday night, will you? As you’ve loved telling me, I’m about as intelligent as a sack of potatoes and I’m a bit under the weather.”

 He started chewing on his lip again, wincing when he remembered it was still split, but continuing on addictively anyway. If he didn’t find a toothpick soon, his mouth would be in rough shape by the time they got to New York- his lips could be battered and bruised- well, more than they were already.

“What does that mean?” Arthur looked puzzled.

“Meaning I need a break from trying to work this all out because it’s been a bit staggering this past week.” He informed him bluntly, then thought about it before adding, “I will say that not all of it has been bad.”

“How did they take you?” Arthur asked him calmly, completely changing the subject in his authoritative way of his- the way that didn’t even pose a challenge.

After a moment of forcing himself to have the willpower of speaking, Eames rolled over onto his side, curling into himself and avoiding all eye contact. He was thankful that Arthur didn’t press him to do more, so he could carry on trying to answer his question.

“One of them bumped into me when I was walking back to my hotel just round the block, so when I turned to look behind me, maybe say _excuse you_ like the smart arse I am _,_ another one caught me and got the needle to my neck. It was effective in promptly putting me out of action- I just sort of blacked out, I think.”

“And then?”

He didn’t want to continue. Naturally, of course. Who would, really? However, silence was telling, so he therefore gave the simplest, most cut and dry story he’d ever told.

“I woke up?” He stated the obvious, but Arthur gave a noise of irritation, so he offered up details- as few details as he could. “It was a dark room with one bright light shining down on me, so my vision was further obstructed with the contrast. There was this… I had a mask on my face… my arms were above my head- it was… they were chained to a wall behind me and I was on my knees.”

Arthur’s voice had gone very quiet. “Tell me more about the mask.”

He inhaled shakily, unsure of how to make something that was traumatizing told like he wasn’t traumatized. “It always had something I was breathing in… it disoriented me, but sometimes they would change it. Sometimes it was… painful, physically- and then other times it would go dark and I thought I’d fallen asleep, but I was always in the same place and I always had the mask on. I lost… I lost track of what was real and what was a dream- I was so bloody high and I was in and out of reality over and over- I couldn’t remember what it was.”

Pointy little fingers clenched him by the shoulder and rolled him on his back, to face the point man- Arthur, who had a very stony face on. “I don’t like leaving this place knowing they’re still here, just running around loose and with the ability to find you again.”

He shrugged, swallowed up at him, squeamish at the intensity of Arthur’s voice. “They didn’t kill me, you know. It could have been worlds worse than what happened, darling.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide when he looked down at him. “No, Eames, they just beat you up, scrambled your head around, then implanted an anti-you to destroy yourself from the inside out.”

“I wouldn’t _quite_ word it that way…” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly of the dramatic tone, sitting up and rolling himself out of the bed. “Also, not entirely the case-”

There was a loud knock at the door. He glanced back at Arthur, inquiringly, and anticipated the look of mild tension on his face. However, he just saw him calmly join him in getting out of bed, stretch, and walk towards the door. He padded along behind him, but Arthur turned back and rolled his eyes in signature fashion.

“It’s just breakfast I ordered to the room, don’t be so paranoid.” He snorted.

Eames let himself drop back, rolling his own eyes at himself, too. His captors wouldn’t be there. It was just room service- and that right there confirmed his own nagging in the back of his head that he had actually been affected by the incident… Bane aside. He was frightened enough that an easy explanation of room service still seemed worth his skepticism. Even as the door opened, he had himself casually positioned by the nightstand where his British Browning L9A1 was stowed- the small, effective gun he always had with him- left over from his time in the military’s special services- the British SAS itself, where the gun was standard issue until quite recently… but no one need hear that story.

Arthur returned, a tray of food in his hands and eyebrows raised like a puppy, but with arrogance behind it as he spoke, thrusting out the tray. “Look. Just breakfast.”

He smiled, relaxing his slightly extended hand, the one towards his gun, instead eyeing the tray with great interest. There was a bowl of berries and a plate stacked with crepes- complete with sweet cream, jam, more berries, and powdered sugar. It made his mouth water. Beside it was a simpler meal- eggs, sausage, toast… A cup of black coffee next to it gave him the clue that the savory route belonged to Arthur, and the steaming mug on the opposite side had just hot water, but next to it was milk, sugar, and a tea bag- another indicator he had indeed gotten the magical plate of crepes.

Eames tried very hard to restrain himself. He stared at the tray with longing, though- he couldn’t stop himself from doing that. His mouth began to literally water as he imagined the delicacy of the tender crepes, the sweet cream melting in his mouth and the tart zing of the jam against his tongue. The perfect cup of tea to finish it all off and fruit to go with it all. He wet his mouth slightly.

How in hell Arthur had known, it was certainly made clear that he had- every detail was dreamy perfection- literally- he couldn’t have put it better. It looked better than anything, even the breakfast of the queen herself (bless her soul) couldn’t compare to what was currently in front of him, unless it was the same thing. He doubted it. Crepes were a bit of a sweet tooth thing, and her Majesty (bless her soul) was likely to be above all that.

But he wasn’t.

He crumpled up his face in bewilderment. “How did you-?”

Arthur’s determinedly straight mouth looked like it was fighting very hard to be that way. He repeated himself from the night previous, ironically making it sound significantly less like a threat when he said it once more. “I. Notice. Everything.”

He nodded slowly at him, fighting against still ogling the plate. “Noted.”

Arthur nodded back, somewhat stiffly. He was waiting for something. Eames was supposed to do something there, right then. He did what he felt was right, whatever that meant by whatever his bloody screwed over standards were.

He leaned over the tray, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s lips, glad when his mouth jumped again in a restrained smile, and he kissed him back.

“Thank you, darling.” He meant it truly, felt his eyes crinkling in genuine happiness.

Arthur let him see the rarity of his gorgeous dimples, smiling to the point that it was a near beaming, childish grin, and Eames felt it was his way of telling him _I’m here._

Needless to say, his morning had made itself a very good one. He tried to shake himself of the whimsical fantasies fogging his senses, telling him it was all forever, if he was honest and good, if they fixed him, they could be forever. They could be together- it could always be that way.

_You seem to have forgotten the problem. We haven’t finished with you yet._

That’s right. He was still tearing apart his own sanity.

_Thank you for the reminder, Bane._


End file.
